We break apart, gasping.
"I have to get to town," she whispers, forehead resting against mine.
"I know." Every instinct in my DNA screams to lock the door and keep her here until the spring thaw. "I’ll take you."
I don't give her time to find her legal armor. I towel her dry with a focus that borders on reverent, then pull my oversized black hoodie over her head, followed by thick gray sweatpants. She looks claimed as we move from the damp heat of the cabin into the biting clarity of the mountain morning. The roar of the Harley drowns out the internal roar of my pulse as she climbs on behind me.
The ride down the mountain defines torture. The vibration and the wind usually clear my head, but today, the bike feels like a cage. Cassandra presses against my back, her chest crushing into me. I feel every shift of her body, the warmth of her thighs bracketed tight around my hips. Wearing my clothes, she carries my musk like a physical brand.
My focus narrows entirely to her safety. I take the switchback curves slower than usual, scanning the tree line for deer, for loose gravel, for anything threatening the woman I carry. Essential. The realization hits me somewhere between the third switchback and the "Welcome to Pine Valley" sign.
Breathing requires her presence.
This isn't poetry. It's physiology. When she steps away, the air thins. When she stays close, my lungs expand fully. For twenty-eight years, I held my breath, waiting for her to show up so I could finally exhale.
We roll onto Main Street. My pipes echo off the brick storefronts. Mid-morning brings the town to life. People turn to look. Old Mrs. Gable outside the post office. Mike sweeping in front of Cozy Cup. They see the Broken Halos Enforcer rolling in with a woman on the back of his bike. Not just any woman. The woman who argued with the mayor yesterday.
We agreed to a show. But as I pull up to the curb in front of the Grand Pine Lodge, I realize the audience means nothing to me. I kill the engine and kick the stand down. Cassandra slides off, legs unsteady. Her helmet hair creates wild tangles my fingers itch to smooth. She hands me the helmet, cheeks flushed from the wind.
"Thank you," she says, formal and stiff. She tries to replace the mask. She glances around, noting the eyes on us. "I should go change before the meeting."
"Cassandra." My voice carries.
She freezes, looking back. "Chase, people are watching."
"Let them watch." I swing my leg over the bike and stand, towering over her. I step into her personal space. Her breath hitches. I reach out, cupping the back of her neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear.
"Remember the plan," she hisses, though she leans into my touch. "We have to look like we're... involved."
"I don't have to act." I speak low enough for only her ears. "You think I look at you like this for the benefit of the town council?"
Her eyes search mine, wide and vulnerable. "I don't know what to think anymore."
"Think about this."
I kiss her. Right there on Main Street. Before the billionaire’s hotel and the gossip-hungry locals. I take her mouth with a hunger bordering on violence, my tongue sweeping in to taste the remnants of my own come on her breath. I want the whole town to see the way she melts for me, the way her pussy drenches those borrowed clothes just from the heat of my mouth. I feel her hands clutch the leather of my cut, gripping the patches defining my existence.
Town, lawsuit, fake relationship—all vanish. Only the taste of her remains, along with the desperate need to keep her.
I pull back. She stands breathless, lips swollen and red. Thoroughly ravished.
"Go to your meeting," I say, voice rough. "Destroy the opposition. Be the shark."
She blinks, dazed. "Chase..."
"But remember who you come home to."
She swallows hard, chin dipping in a sharp jerk, then turns to flee into the safety of the Lodge. I watch the sway of her hips, the confident click of her stilettos on the pavement trying to mask the trembling I felt moments ago. The glass doors slide shut, severing the connection. A physical ache settles in the center of my chest.
I stand there, staring at the empty space. My hands fist at my sides.
"You look like you just got hit by a truck, brother."
I don't flinch. I felt his eyes. I turn my head. Austin leans against the brick wall of the bakery next door. Coffee in one hand, VP patch catching the light. He grins, but his eyes remain sharp. Calculating. He knows the look.
"Shut up," I growl, grabbing my helmet.
Austin pushes off the wall and walks over, boots heavy on the sidewalk. He stops next to the bike, looking from me to the hotel doors. "That didn't look like a fake kiss, Chase. We need this permit. But if you’re playing with fire just to get a signature..."
