I should let go. Climb off the bike, thank him politely, and go inside to the safety of home. But my arms don't unlock because my body doesn't want to leave the warm, solid wall of his back.
“Cupcake.” His voice is low, rough. “You can let go now.”
Right. I peel myself off him and nearly fall over when I dismount. My legs have turned to jelly. He catches my elbow, steadying me, and even that small touch sends sparks up my arm and down to my core.
“You okay?”
“Great,” I say. “Totally great. Just forgot how my legs were meant to work for a second.”
Clay’s mouth twitches as he walks me to my door. I'm very aware of how big he is beside me and how much space he takes up. The hallway is smaller with him in it, the air thicker.
I stop at my apartment and turn to face him. “Thank you. For dinner. And the ride. And for helping with the event. I know it's not really your usual thing, charity hug stations, and I really appreciate you taking it seriously, because a lot of people wouldn't, they'd just laugh, and you didn't laugh, well, you sort of almost smiled once, which I'm counting as a win, and…”
“Karina.”
I stop babbling. He's gazing at me with a ferocity that makes my stomach flip.
“Yeah?”
He steps closer, not stopping until he's right in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His hand grips my wrist, pulling me toward him until we're chest to chest. My heart is pounding so hard he must be able to hear it.
“I'm not good at this,” he says. The words are rough, almost reluctant. “Soft words. Romance. That's not who I am.”
“I wasn't expecting?—”
“I know what you were expecting.” His other hand finds the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. “Some gentleman who brings you flowers and takes things slow.”
I can barely breathe. “Clay?—”
“That's not me… I don't do slow or gentle. And Idon't share.”
I should be scared. Every romance novel I've ever read says this is the moment the heroine should run. He's too dominant.
But I stay still. My body wants to melt into the door and let him do whatever he wants.
“Whatdoyou do?” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth. “This.”
He kisses me.
His mouth takes mine like he's been starving for it. His hand in my hair holds me exactly where he wants me while his other arm wraps around my waist, lifting me onto my toes. I grab fistfuls of his cut because my knees have buckled completely. A moan escapes me, and he drinks it down, deepening the kiss until I can't tell where I end and he begins.
When he finally pulls back, I'm gasping. His eyes are dark, his breathing uneven.
“That's who I am,” he says. “Still want my help?”
I should really think about this. Weigh the pros and cons, then seriously consider whether getting involved with a biker president is a wise life choice.
Instead, I say, “Yes.”
His expression changes. Something hot and satisfied flickers through those gray-green eyes. He traces my lower lip with his thumb, pressing gently against the swell where he just kissed me.
“Then I'll see you tomorrow, cupcake.”
He steps back. The cold air rushes in where his body used to be, and I have to lock my knees to keep from sliding down the door.
“Cupcake?” My voice comes out like a breathless squeak.
