Page 33 of My Reckless Biker

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." His fingers move faster, more insistent, and his hips drive harder. "Come on, baby. One more. Let me feel it."

The endearment combined with everything else, with the way he's looking at me like I'm everything he wants, with the way his fingers are working and his cock is hitting exactly the right spot, pushes me over the edge one more time.

I come with his name torn from my throat, clenching around him, and the sensation triggers his own release.

His hips stutter and then drive deep one final time and he comes with a groan, spilling inside me, and I can feel the heat of it, can feel him pulsing.

He doesn't pull out right away. Just stays buried inside me while we both shake and gasp and try to remember how breathing works. His forehead drops to mine and we're both slick with sweat, both trembling with aftershocks.

Finally he pulls out slowly and I feel the immediate loss, feel empty without him, feel the evidence of what we did start to leak out.

He collapses beside me on the bed and immediately pulls me against his chest and I go willingly, boneless and sated and completely undone.

We lie there in silence for a long time. Just breathing. Just being. His hand slides into my hair, gentle now, and I rest my palm over his heart and feel it gradually slow.

I should say something. Should acknowledge what just happened. Should process the fact that we just crossed every line and there's no going back.

But I don't want to think yet. Don't want to calculate or analyze or plan.

I just want to lie here and feel wanted and chosen and completely seen.

His fingers trace lazy patterns through my hair and down my back and I'm aware of my body pressed against his, of my soft curves against his hard lines, of the way we fit together like we were designed for this.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yes."

"I wasn't gentle."

"I didn't want gentle."

His chest moves with what might be a laugh. "Good. Because I don't think I could've been gentle if I tried. I've been wanting you too long to be anything other than what that was."

"What was it?"

"Desperate. Necessary. Real." His hand tightens in my hair slightly. "The realest thing I've felt in years."

I press closer against him and his arm tightens around me and we're quiet for another long moment.

We're quiet for a while, just breathing together, and then he says, "You never talk about your mother. Only your father."

The observation catches me off guard. "She died when I was nine. Stroke in the kitchen while she was making breakfast. One second she was there, the next she was on the floor and I was screaming for my father. She was gone before the ambulance arrived."

His hand tightens in my hair slightly. "I'm sorry."

"My father never remarried. Never brought anyone else into the house. Just raised me himself with help from whoever he could convince to handle the practical things. I think that's why he loves me the way he does, not because I'm his daughter but because I'm all he has left of her. He looks at me and sees her. That makes me valuable to him in ways I can't compete with."

I pause, feeling the old grief rise up.

"But it also means he's never seen me. Just me. He sees his daughter, his legacy, my mother's face. But he doesn't see Sienna. I've spent my whole life wanting someone to see me as just me. Not Victor Crane's daughter. Not my mother's ghost. Just me."

"I see you," Diesel says quietly. "And I don't see your father or your mother when I look at you. I just see you."

The words settle in my chest and I realize this is what I've been wanting my entire life.

To be seen.