Page 42 of The Biker and the Loner
I reach across and take the hem of his shirt between my thumb and forefinger and gingerly begin peeling it up to sneak a peek of his abs. But before I know what’s happening, I’m thrown onto my back with sudden swiftness and his forearm is bearing down on my throat, cutting off my airflow. His face is contorted with rage, murder in his eyes.
I can’t breathe. I can’t…breathe.
Panic has me slapping wildly at his hands and bucking my hips, trying to get him off me, trying to get him to see that it’s only me.
“Scra…I…Ple…”
It’s too hard to breathe, let alone speak. There’s no airflow. He’s too strong for me. I can feel my eyes bulging, darkness creeping in at the corners.
Please, Scratch, please!Wake up! Wake up from your rage and fear and look at me. Look at me!
Just when I begin to think, ‘This is it. I’m going to die at the hands of the same man who, mere hours ago, made me feel safer than I’ve ever been’, he suddenly rips himself away and blinks rapidly.
“Wha—” His eyes blow wide as he looks down at me. “Holy fuck...” He scrambles backward and off the bed. “FUCK!”
Heaving in a lungful of air, I jackknife up, gasping for breath, slightly dazed and dizzy. Feeling as if I’ll pass out if I don’t get enough airflowfast, I scurry off the bed and find the closest wall to lean against, keeping my feet apart and away from the wall, my hands lax at my sides. Just the way Papà taught me to recover from breathlessness.
“Jesus Christ, Ley, I’m so sorry!” he says, sounding terrified. He rushes over to me and cups my face, dipping his head to meet my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry! I thought you were…I thought...”
Exhaling, I lift my hands to cover his. “I know. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“No, it’s not,” he rumbles, his voice breaking. “I could’ve killed you.”
“But you didn’t.” I try to force a smile. “I’m here, see?”
His hands shift down from my face to my neck, touching gently. “You’re bruised.”
“They’ll fade.”
Expelling a defeated breath, he squeezes his eyes shut and drops his forehead to mine. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Us sleeping together. It’s not safe for you.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You don’t get to say what’s safe for me and what isn’t.Ido.” I find his hands between us, lacing our fingers together. “I understand that you’re going to be dealing with a lot of mental issues after all you’ve been through and survived, but I’m not going to run because of it. I want to be here for you. Let me be here for you.”
His eyes are pained when he opens them. “Ley, no. I can’t risk—”
“Let me be here for you, Scratch.”
We stare into each other’s eyes, his defeated, mine determined. Then, with a noisy, reluctant sigh, he replies, “Okay.”
I’m aware he’s still doing rehab and therapy, and I understand that he’s probably going to be dealing with PTSD for a while, and I’m fully prepared to stand with him, not abandoned him—even at the risk of my own life. Papà was never in the army, but he was a cop, and I grew up witnessing some wild sleep-walking episodes from him. I never feared him because I knew he would never intentionally hurt me. Likewise, while I fear Scratch with my heart, I don’t fear him with my life.
I squeeze his fingers. “Let’s go back to bed.”
We walk back to the bed, but I stop him before he gets in, telling him, “Take your shirt off first. That’s what got me into trouble in the first place. I was trying to get a peek at your abs.”
Though his eyes are still somber, one corner of his lip tugs up into a tiny smile as he obliges and pulls his shirt over his head.
Gloriously rock-hard, tattooed abs greet me.Well, hello there.
“Happy?” he asks, amused.
Dramatically, I fall backward onto the bed and exhale a dreamy sigh. “Very.”
Chuckling, he crawls in next to me, then reaches down and fingers the little bow on the front of my lace underwear. “Looks like someone was having a private show without me…”
I roll my eyes. “I had a bad dream and woke up hot and sweaty, so I took off my jeans and top, that’s all.”
He sobers. “You okay?”
