I glance at my door and then back at her. “You could sleep in my room,” I suggest.
She studies my face without answering.
“If you want,” I continue. “Not that I’m pushing, but…” Jeez, I sound like an idiot. Shaking my head, grin at her. “Never mind, I don’t know why…”
She stops my apology with a kiss. Rising to her toes, she presses her soft lips against mine. When her tiny hands land on my chest, I wrap one arm around her waist while I cup the back of her head with my other hand. My tongue teases the crease until she opens for me. I angle my head to deepen the kiss. She’s fucking delicious.
When we break apart, we’re both panting.
“Is that a yes?” I growl.
“No, that’s an about time!” she laughs as she fists my shirt. “I’ve wanted to do that since forever.”
I grin at her. “There’s something else I’d like to do. Maybe we should discuss it inside.”
She matches my smile. “I think that’s a very good idea.”
CHAPTER 18: ZARA
His mouth is still warm against mine when he reaches past me and pushes open his bedroom door.
The kiss we just shared lingers between us—breathless and hungry and a little bit desperate. Bush doesn’t do anything halfway. When he kissed me back, it wasn’t cautious or unsure. It was possessive and promising.
When the door swings inward, he steps aside so I can walk in first. This simple gesture has my stomach flipping. I hesitate on the threshold as I consider the meaning of this moment. I’ve dreamed about this man and this moment since I was fifteen years old.
Back then, he wasn’t Bush. He was Whip—the dangerous biker who leaned against my father’s counter with a clenched-tight jaw and eyes that missed nothing. I didn’t understand the full scope of what the Bushrangers had planned for me. I just knew everything about them felt wrong, except for Whip.
When Whip told my dad to get us out of town, he didn’t explain or soften the message. He saved my life.
I remember the way he looked at me that day—not like I was a bargaining chip or a burden, but like I was something preciousthat needed protecting. It was the first time a man had ever looked at me that way.
I’ve been carrying that look around in my chest ever since.
Now I’m standing outside his bedroom, about to cross into something I’ve imagined for years, and my confidence wavers. What if I built him up too much? What if the hero I’ve worshipped in secret can’t live up to the fantasy? Worse—what if I’m not enough? I’m not fifteen anymore. I’m not some wide-eyed girl staring at a biker like he’s carved from legend. I’m a woman. But I can’t stop trembling.
He notices. Of course he does. Bush notices everything.
“Zara,” he says quietly.
Just my name. Nothing more.
I step inside.
The room smells like him—clean soap, leather, something darker underneath. It’s simple. Uncluttered. A reflection of the man himself. The door shuts behind us with a soft click that echoes too loudly in my ears.
My heart pounds.
“I’ve wanted this,” I admit before I can stop myself.
His eyes darken. “So have I.”
That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. For years, he’s been larger than life in my head—untouchable. The idea that he wanted me also feels surreal.
“I used to think about you,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. “After we left. I didn’t even know your real name, but I—”
He closes the distance between us.
“Zara,” he says again, firmer now. His hands settle at my waist, steady and warm. “You were a kid.”
