Certain.
My knees nearly fold.
“I didn’t call you,” I whisper.
He crosses the room, boots heavy on the concrete, stopping two feet away. Still doesn’t touch me.
He doesn’t have to.
“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
Outside, something shifts. A shadow passes the window and my whole body reacts like prey.
Oaks plants himself between me and the front like he’s done it before, like guarding is muscle memory.
Hell finally stops pretending.
It wants me scared.
It wants me cornered.
It wants to see who comes for me first.
“I’m taking you home,” Oaks says.
Not a question.
A decision.
His Harley growls low and steady as I climb on behind him. The engine hums straight through the soles of my boots and into my bones.
“Hold on,” he says.
I already am.
My hands slide around his waist before my brain catches up, palms pressing into solid muscle and warm leather. His jacket smells like smoke and night air with something darker underneath it.
Danger.
Desire.
Either one works.
When he pulls out, the forward motion steals my breath and I tighten my grip without thinking. My chest presses to his back. My cheek brushes the hard line of his shoulder blade.
Everything feels amplified.
The way his thighs flex around the bike. The subtle shift of his hips as he takes the curves. The way his body reacts before the road even tells him to.
I’ve ridden in trucks my whole life, bounced around in cabs and trailers, ridden horses until my legs went numb.
This is different.
This is intimate.
Too intimate for a man who swears he doesn’t cheat with his heart.
The wind whips my hair loose and I press closer without meaning to, fingers curling into the front of his cut.
