Page 8 of The Belle and the Biker

As for him, he made it clear from the start that he thought I was a snotty, stuck-up princess who thinks I'm better than everyone else. And that's just not true. I believe everyone has the potential to be wonderful, and when I offer tips on fashion and etiquette, it's my attempt to help others reach their full potential.

After months of pretending we couldn't stand each other, we had one night together—one rain-soaked, windy night when he walked me home, and I invited him up for coffee.

We were both drunk, and we fell into bed together. And even as smashed as I was, it was utterly mind-blowing. I finally learned that multiple orgasms are not a myth.

When we woke up, though, we both felt awkward as h-e-double hockey sticks, and he threw on his clothes and practically ran out of the apartment. Thank God nobody ever found out about it—I think. At that point, I was still living alone in my cousin Daisy's old apartment. And one good thing I can say about Crash is that he doesn't seem the type to kiss and tell.

Right after that, he was sent to California.

He didn't even bother to tell me he was leaving. It should have been a relief because if he'd stuck around, it would have been awkward, but instead, it was a blow to my already bruised ego. What is it about me that sends men running to the hills?

Then it hits me—what Tawny said this morning in the apartment. "Oh, he didn't stop by for a little something-something?" That makes it sound as if he's back in town.

She's working the other side of the room, and I don't care how many drink orders are waiting… I need to know. I elbow my way through the crowd, breathing in the scent of leather, beer, and sweat. As I walk, a hand snakes out, and someone pinches my butt.

It's a tall, chubby biker with a long dirty beard and a gut that sits on his lap. I "accidentally" spill the dregs of the beer mug on his crotch.

The guy leaps to his feet, roaring with anger. And a second later, he's down on his knees.

Crash was sitting at one of the booths, which is why I didn't spot him earlier. He has the man's arm twisted up behind his back. The biker, who easily weighs 300 pounds, blinks, and tears of pain run down his cheeks and drip into his beard.

"Apologize to the nice lady," Crash growls.

"Sorry!" the man wheezes. "I didn't know she was your old lady!"

"Bite your tongue," I snap at him.

The guy looks pitifully up at Crash. "Do I have to?"

"Not literally, you idiot! I mean, I'm not his girlfriend." I refuse to say, old lady. Ugh. "And keep your hands to yourself."

"He and I are going to take this conversation outside." Crash's voice is an angry growl.

"That isn't necessary," I say, but I'm talking to his back as he propels the guy away. The crowd parts for them like the Red Sea, and the door slams behind him. I wouldn't want to trade places with that man; he's going to be spitting teeth in the next sixty seconds.

Crash comes back a few minutes later. I make it a point to brush past him as I'm walking toward the bar, and I pause, tipping my head back to look up at him. Still so gorgeous. I never thought I'd be attracted to a man with a beard, but it adds to his primal, ultra-macho appeal. He couldn't be any more different than my ex-husband—in some bad and some good ways.

"Thanks for taking care of that guy for me," I say.

"Part of my job." He shrugs indifferently, and any warm, fuzzy feelings I had evaporate instantly.

"Has anyone told you that you're the least charming guy on the planet?" I huff.

He snorts. "Yeah, and it's really hurting my standing with the club. It was on the application when I joined the Iron Ride. 'Would you generally be considered charming?'"

"You filled out an application to be a member of a vigilante gang? A printed application?" My eyes widen in shock.

Crash gives me an amused look, his sensual mouth curling up in a smile.

"Ah, sarcasm. Well, it's good to see you're good at something." I leave that hanging in the air as I walk away, strongly implying that I was not a satisfied customer during our one night of passion. Of course, that's a lie because he made me orgasm so hard that my soul temporarily left my body. But maybe he'll think that I was faking it.

Crash catches up to me quickly. Oh, did I hurt his tender feelings?

"You were late to work tonight," he informs me.

Nope. Nothing could penetrate that thick shell of leather-wrapped ego.

"Five minutes. For the first time," I say indignantly. "By the way, hi, nice to see you again, low-budget Grizzly Adams."

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