Page 48 of The Biker and the Loner
When I’ve finally lugged my bags downstairs, my car keys are missing. Of course, she hid them. She doesn’t want me to leave—she’s the one who was bluffing. Too badIwant to leave.
Fortunately, I still have the keys to Papà’s Range Rover that he left for me. Over all these years, I haven’t been able to bring myself to sell it, so instead I get it tuned and serviced twice a year and sit or sleep in it whenever I want to feel close to him.
Down in the garage, I haul off the covering of the 06’ Rover. White, shiny, tinted, and good as new. For a brief moment, it reminds me of the gardenias, and I wonder if it was the same for Papà.
From an app on my phone, I command the garage door to open. After tossing my bags in the back, I jump in and power up the old engine.
The smell of him still lingers in here. Of wet earth, gardenias, and unconditional love.
I inhale him deeply, then exhale on a whispered, “I’m sorry, Papa.”
~
As quietly as I can, I unlock the door, hoping Scratch is asleep. I’d prayed on the way over that he wouldn't be here when I arrived, because the last thing I wanted was for him to see me scurrying back with my tail tucked between my legs.
Alas, his bike was right there in the driveway when I pulled up. What kind of big, bad, motorcycle club member is home at 9 PM on a Friday anyway?Ugh.
Gingerly, I close the door behind me then toe off my flats before trekking down the short hallway. I can see the flashing blue light of the television against the hall walls, but I hear no sounds.
As the hall spreads open into the living area, I screech to a halt. My duffel bag hits the floor with a thud when I shoot my hands up in surrender. "Oh my g—Scratch, it's me! It's me!"
Sprawled supine and shirtless on the new sofa with one leg dangling off to the floor, Scratch's gun, along with his threatening glare, is trained right at me.
As quiet as I’d tried to be, I shouldn't be surprised he heard me enter. He's a war hero. Were I an enemy thinking I'd be catching him off-guard in this moment, I'd be sorely mistaken.
He lowers his gun and tucks it under the couch. "Key?"
"Cookie had a spare." I drop my hands. "Weren’t you curious how all the new furniture got in?"
He offers a one-shoulder shrug. "Got in about an hour ago, too tired to think about it. I just knocked out." His gaze shifts to my duffel on the floor, then back to me, one brow arching. "Sup?"
Scratching a nonexistent itch behind my ear, I mumble, "She kicked me out."
"Best damn thing I’ve heard all day." A hint of a smirk flirts on his full lips. "Get your ass over here."
When I do, he grabs my wrist and hauls me down on top of him.
He feels so good. Solid and warm and safe.
Bracketing my face with his palms, he stares up at me, eyes roaming. But before he can beat me to it, I dip down and kiss him.
Yes.
Yesss.
His lips are full and firm and soft all at once. He opens up to let me in, and we make love with our mouths for what feels like forever and still not long enough.
Suddenly I’m flipped over and he’s on top. He feasts on my neck, kissing, licking, nipping with his teeth, and I tip my head back, giving him better access. His kisses, his mouth, his touch, his weight, his heat...sogood.
Sliding the straps of my dress down my shoulders until they’re below my bra, he lowers his head to tongue my nipple over the lace fabric of my bra. One hand slides up under my dress, squeezing and caressing my thigh, and I writhe beneath him, a burning ball of need, cravingmore.
In a silent beg, I thrust up my chest. Complying, he teases one breast out of my bra and flicks his tongue around and around my taut, aching nipple before he suckles it, eliciting a loud moan of appreciation from me.
With his other hand under my dress, he traces the edges of my panties, skimming, brushing, teasing me. I'm so wet and throbbing it's becoming unbearable.
I elevate my pelvis, hinting that Idesperatelyneed him to touch me there. He doesn't comply this time. Nope, he chooses to taunt me. Torment me. Drive me insane.
I drag my palms down his back, loving the feel of his rippling muscles under my skin.
