Page 30 of My Reckless Biker

I kiss him back just as hard. Matching his intensity. Meeting his need with my own. My hands find his shoulders and I grip tight, nails digging in through fabric, and he makes a sound low in his throat that's almost a growl.

He walks me backward and my shoulders hit the wall and the impact jolts through me but I don't care.

His body presses against mine, pinning me there, and I can feel everything. The hard planes of his chest against my breasts.

The solid muscle of his thighs. The thick ridge of him pressing insistent against my hip through too many layers of denim.

He wants me. I can feel exactly how much he wants me.

And knowing I did that to him, knowing I made this controlled man lose control, sends liquid heat pooling low in my belly.

His mouth leaves mine and trails rough kisses down my jaw to my throat.

His teeth scrape and then bite, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough that I gasp and arch into him.

He does it again, lower, and I tilt my head back to give him access, fingers sliding into his hair and holding him there.

His hands are everywhere. Sliding under my shirt, rough palms dragging up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my bra.

I'm burning up. My skin feels too tight. I need less fabric between us. Need his hands on my bare skin.

I pull at his shirt and he breaks away just long enough to yank it over his head and throw it somewhere behind him.

Then his hands are on my shirt doing the same, pulling it up and off, and I'm standing there in my bra and jeans and the way he looks at me makes me feel like I'm burning.

His eyes track down slowly. Deliberately. Taking in every curve. The swell of my breasts straining against black lace. The soft roundness of my stomach. The width of my hips.

"Fuck," he says, and his voice has gone rough and raw. "Look at you."

His hands come up and cup my breasts, squeezing, testing their weight, and I'm very aware of how full they are in his palms, how substantial, how real.

He's not tentative about it. Not gentle. He touches me like he has every right to. Like my body is his to explore and claim.

His thumbs brush over my nipples through the lace and the friction makes me bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

He sees it. Sees me trying to stay quiet. And something dark flashes in his eyes.

"Don't," he says. "Don't hold back. I want to hear you."

Then he does it again, harder this time, and when I gasp he makes a satisfied sound and leans in to bite my shoulder, my collarbone, anywhere he can reach.

I'm shaking. I'm actually shaking with how badly I want this, want him, want his hands and mouth on every inch of me.

He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with one hand. Pulls it off and drops it.

And then there's nothing between his hands and my bare skin and when he touches me this time, when his rough palms close over my breasts and his thumbs find my nipples and circle and press, I make a sound I don't recognize.

He makes that growl again and his mouth moves down.

Kisses and bites trail from my throat to my chest and when his mouth closes over my nipple, hot and wet, my knees actually buckle.

He catches me. One arm around my waist holding me up while his mouth works, tongue circling and flicking and then his teeth grazing just enough to make me jerk.

He pays attention to what makes me gasp, what makes my fingers tighten in his hair, what makes me arch into him seeking more.

He switches to the other breast and gives it the same treatment, and I'm drowning in sensation, in the heat of his mouth and the scrape of his stubble and the solid strength of his arm holding me up.

My hands find his shoulders, his back, mapping muscle and scars and ink through touch.