I tilt her face up to mine. “You make me want to share everything, Small Town. You make me want to be seen.”
Marley studies me for a moment, quiet, thoughtful. “I like hearing you talk about them. About this other world you live in.”
“It’s not always pretty,” I warn.
“Pretty isn’t what I’m looking for.” She steps even closer, her voice low. “I just want the parts that matter to you.” I swallow, feeling that land deeper than it should. “You’re scared I’m going to judge you,” she says finally.
“Maybe a little.” I cross my arms over my chest, defensive. “Most people hearmotorcycle cluband think the worst.”
“I’mnotmost people.” Marley steps closer, close enough that I could reach out and touch her. “And honestly? This makes you more interesting, not less. Derek lived his whole life worried about what people think. You live yours surrounded by people who have your back no matter what…” She pauses. “And that’s actually kind of amazing.”
Something in my chest cracks open. “You’re a little scary, you know that?” I tell her.
“Me?”She laughs. “I’m about as threatening as a kitten.”
“Exactly. You don’t realize your own power.” I straighten from the bike, closing the distance between us until I’m looking down at her upturned face. “You scare the hell out of me, Marley Wren.”
Her breath catches. “Why?”
Because you make me want things I shouldn’t want.
Because you make me forget about the fourteen-year age gap between us.
Because when I’m with you, I’m not the VP of an MC.
Or a man trying to manage his parents’ billion-dollar company.
Or a liar carrying the weight of two identities.
I’m just Nitro, just Damon, just a guy who wants to make you smile.
But I can’t say any of that.
Not yet.
“You sure you’re not scared?” I ask instead. “Being out here with an older biker dude?” I’m trying to joke, but the words come out rougher than I intend.
She grins, and fuck, that smile could bring me to my knees. “A little. But also completely exhilarated.” Then her smile turns wicked. “Though if we’re really practicing for this whole fake-dating thing, shouldn’t we practice other stuff too?”
My heart stops at the thought. “Other stuff?”
“You know.” She tries casually, but her voice betrays her by being soft, shaky, and hopeful. “Like… kissing. We might have to kiss at the gala. We should… you know, make sure we’re compatible.”
She says it like it’s a strategy. But her pulse kicks at her throat, her cheeks flush pink, and she can’t stop looking at my mouth.
I take a slow step toward her. “Compatible,” I echo, my voice dropping. “That’s what this is?”
“I… I’m just saying it might be…necessary.”Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt, fidgeting as if she can’t decide whether to run or grab the front of my cut again. And those green eyes are wide, hopeful, and terrified, blinking up at me from way below my shoulders.
She has no idea what she does to me.
She lifts her chin like she’s trying to meet me halfway, trying to bridge the impossible height difference between us.
That tiny, stubborn gesture—God help me—it snaps my restraint clean in half.
“Fuck it,” I growl. My hands close around her waist, and I hoist her up. She gasps, the sound soft and startled, as I lift her effortlessly and place her on the seat of my bike.
She steadies herself on the seat, her eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between her chest and her lips.
