Page 19 of My Reckless Biker

"I'd rather hear that than another tactical assessment where I'm just a variable in an equation you're trying to solve."

He moves closer, letting go of the doorframe, and now there's maybe two feet between us and I can feel the energy coming off him, can see his chest rising and falling faster.

"You're not a variable," he says.

"Then what am I?"

"You're someone who walked into our territory and offered us everything we'd need to destroy your father. You're someone who sat behind me on a bike and trusted me to bring you back when you had no reason to trust me. You're someone who answered a question this morning with the most honest thing I've heard from anyone in years. You're someone who makes me want to believe you even when every tactical instinct I have says I shouldn't."

The admission comes out rough and reluctant and true, and I can see what it costs him to say it.

"And you're someone I can't stop looking at," he adds, voice even rougher now. "Even when I'm supposed to be watching for you to slip up, I'm noticing things I shouldn't notice. The way you move. The way you talk to Cain like you're genuinely interested instead of performing interest. The way your hair falls when you take it down. The way you look at me like you're trying to figure me out the same way I'm trying to figure you out."

He's close enough now that I can see the exact color of his eyes in the dim light from the window, can see the scar through his eyebrow and the tension in his jaw.

"And that's the problem," he says. "Because wanting to believe you and wanting you are getting tangled up in ways I can't separate, and I don't know if I'm starting to trust you because you've earned it or because I want you badly enough that I'm compromising my judgment."

The honesty in it, the raw admission that he wants me, sends heat straight through my chest and lower.

"I want you too," I say, and my voice comes out quieter than I intended. "I've wanted you since you looked at me in that first meeting and I saw you cataloguing everything about me like I was a puzzle you were going to solve. I've wanted you since The Anchor when your hand burned through my shirt and I realized I wasn't afraid of you, I was drawn to you. I've wanted you since this morning when I pressed against your back on that bike and felt safe for the first time since I left my father's house."

His breathing changes, gets heavier, and I can see his control starting to crack.

"This is a bad idea," he says.

"I know."

"You're still Victor Crane's daughter. I'm still watching you. This doesn't change the tactical reality."

"I know that too."

"Then why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm tired of calculating. I'm tired of being strategic. I'm tired of performing for everyone including myself. And because you asked what I think this morning and for the first time in my life someone actually wanted to know, and I don't want to go back to a world where nobody asks that question."

He closes the remaining distance between us in one step and his hand comes up to my face, palm against my cheek, thumb brushing my jawline. The touch is rough and warm and deliberate, and I can feel my breathing go shallow.

"You make everything impossible," he says, and his voice is wrecked.

"You started it. You asked what I think."

"Yeah. I did."

His eyes drop to my mouth and I see the exact moment the decision is made, the instant before he moves.

Then his mouth is on mine and everything else disappears.

The kiss is rough, desperate, nothing gentle about it. His hand slides into my hair, gripping, holding me in place while his mouth demands something I'm willing to give. I kiss him back with all the frustration and want I've been suppressing, all the anger at being looked at like a liar, all the exhausted desperation of someone who's been performing for so long she forgot what real feels like.

This is real.

His tongue against mine, his teeth catching my bottom lip, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough that I'll feel it tomorrow. I can feel every hard line of him and I'm aware of my own body in ways I haven't been in years, the soft curve of my stomach pressed against his abdomen, my full breasts against his chest, my thick thighs bracketing his leg as he steps even closer.

He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a groan, and his hand on my hip slides around to the small of my back, pulling me tighter against him.

I grip his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle through his shirt and cut, and I kiss him harder, taking instead of waiting to be given. His hand in my hair tightens and the sharp pull sends heat straight through me, makes me gasp against his mouth.

He pulls back just far enough to look at me, eyes dark and wild and completely focused.