Shadow pats the stool next to him, his eyes still locked on me. I carefully walk past a young guy who is asleep facedown on the floor, spread-eagled, the waistband of his jeans lowered just enough to expose the top of his butt crack.
As I step past his motorcycle boots—how on earth he is sleeping facedown on the floor with boots on, I don’t know—it hits me that this is so not how I imagined riding out my first hurricane.
When I finally get to the bar, I give Shadow a grateful smile. “Good morning. I hope you slept okay on your couch. I didn’t mean to take your bed.” I can’t help myself. My eyes rove over his tanned skin, the thick, dark hair covering his bare chest, and something—probably just the alcohol from last night—flutters inside my chest.
He purses his lips and grunts. “Coffee? You want anything in it?”
“Do you mean anything more potent?” I shake my head, the motion making me feel dizzy and definitely still a little drunk. “I think I drank enough last night for a lifetime. Just a little sugar if you have it.”
He cracks a smile and goes behind the bar to pour me a cup. He grabs a sugar shaker and a spoon and sets them in front of me. Then he claims the stool beside me.
I can’t stop myself from turning to face him, and I try not to stare at the muscles and tattoos, all the skin and hair and color that make his body so darned appealing. Instead, I stare down into my mug and take a deep sip.
We’re quiet for a moment before the wind smashes something large and solid against the shutters. I nearly leap off the stool and into Shadow’s lap, but I somehow maintain my outward composure.
I grab my coffee cup and take another sip, settling myself on the stool.
“Storm’s still raging.” His voice is like the shots we took last night, every word heating my senses and sending prickles up and down my bare arms.
I feel buzzy and loose, and I lock my eyes on the intricate faded black ink that covers his arms. I set my coffee cup down and cross my arms over my chest protectively. “It sounds like the roof is going to blow off. You were right about the storm. I hope you can stand my company for a while longer.”
He turns his body to face me and locks eyes with me as he sips his coffee. “I told you you’d be safe here.”
I nod again, not sure what to say. Thank you doesn’t seem like enough. He’s given me, a stranger, shelter, protection, whiskey, and now coffee. Sitting beside him in the same clothes I slept in, his chest bare, chatting like this, feels intimate. Nothing about this feels like a stranger rescuing a damsel in distress. “You tucked me in last night,” I say softly.
He doesn’t look away from me. “Had no choice. That might be the first time a woman’s actually passed out on me.”
I lift my brows and wave a hand at a woman whose bare foot is tucked under the calf of a mostly dressed biker. They are so tightly intertwined on a small love seat a few feet away that my back hurts just looking at them.
“Are you sure?” I tease. “Hard to believe if you weren’t babysitting me that you wouldn’t have been out here with the rest of them, some naked hottie passed out all over you.”
“If you stay another night,” he continues, his voice low, “maybe I’ll let you pass out on me. I don’t have to tuck you in alone, Violet.”
There is a promise in his words, and I grip my mug tighter. A flush creeps its way up my cheeks, and I try to hold back a smile. Is the scary, sexy biker flirting with me? And even more than that, why do I suddenly want him to?
Somebody releases an ear-shattering snore, and we trade smiles. Then Shadow leans forward and rests his elbows on the bar. “You know you still owe me an answer.”
I cock my head and rack my brain. “I do?” I can’t remember much about last night…at least not the later part of the night. “What did you ask?”
He turns on the stool to face me, every muscle in his torso pivoting with the movement. His beard is thick and trimmed. It looks so soft. He must have woken early and cleaned up. His hair looks damp, like he might have showered. The thought of Shadow naked just steps away from where I was sleeping makes my nipples go hard.
Just then, another crash of thunder and wind startles the ever-loving daylights out of me. I leap off my stool and throw my arms around Shadow’s neck. “What was that?” I look into his face, his full lips now just inches from mine. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I—” The words die on my lips as Shadow’s hands circle my hips.
He’s sitting on the stool with his legs open. He pulls me between his legs and holds me close to him. He feels so, so good. Hot, hard, soft, and smooth. I want to touch his beard, run my fingers through his hair. I tip my head back and look into his green eyes.
Maybe I’m still drunk, and heck, maybe I’m more reckless than I realize, but I swear I don’t even think about it. The heat of him under my hands, his smooth, corded muscles, even the feel of being between his legs. I’m drawn to him like a bee to a flower. As soon as I smell him, my eyelids drift closed. I want to taste him. I lean my face closer to his, and before I realize what’s happening, I’m kissing him.
I’m about to pull away in horror when he grips my ass and yanks me tight against him. And oh, sweet mother, does he kiss me back. I open my mouth, thankful I brushed every last trace of whiskey from my teeth, and his tongue and mine meet like long-lost lovers reunited. Desperately, deeply. I may only have known him for a night, but my body didn’t get that memo. I am falling, falling, literally weightless as I’m pulled under by bliss. All I feel are his hands, his lips, his tongue against mine. He tastes rich, like black coffee, and sweet, like the lightest trace of sugar.
His bare skin under my hands is hot, and I just want more of that, more of him. I want to be closer, to tangle myself against the furnace of his chest and lose myself in the pleasure.
I dig my fingers through his hair, scratching, writhing, pressing myself as close to him as I can get. He cups my butt cheeks, and while it should be too much, too soon, it’s not close enough.
He feels so unbelievably good. It’s like everything else fades away. The storm. The bikers. The women. I pause to catch my breath, but I wrap my arms tighter around his neck. I whimper, a needy, hungry sound, and press my chest toward him, my nipples suddenly hard and aching for contact.
“Fuuuuuuuck meeeeee.”
That was definitely not his voice.
