Page 81 of Savage Saint

“I’m being more than reasonable, Pocket Doc.” Before she can argue again, I grip her waist and lift her onto the back of my bike. A startled squeak leaves her, and I bite back a grin, enjoying the sight of her on my bike a little too much.

I want to stretch her over the seat and⁠—

“You cannot keep doing that,” she huffs, pulling me away from dangerous thoughts. Not that it won’t happen; she needs more time. Get used to my presence in her life.

I’m not an easy man. I’m possessive, demanding, and used to getting what I want without asking twice. Genesis isn’t ready for that yet, but she will be.

My head tilts. “Doing what?”

“Moving me around like furniture.” If she meant to sound serious and put off, Genesis failed. Not when her lips curl up at the corner and nipples harden, pushing against the tight fabric of her sports bra. Not when goosebumps spread across her soft skin, and she looks at me with want, not hate. “Do it again and see what happens.”

“Is that a challenge, Nurse Romero?”

“That’s a warning.”

“I’m going to enjoy this.” I straddle the bike in the space in front of her, and after hooking a hand around her knees, I yank Genesis forward so we’re flush. Her breasts against my back, her hips pressed close—the heat between her thighs causing my cock to thicken. Throb against the zipper of my jeans.

Fucking hell, this woman is a temptation.

I tighten my grip on her knees and exhale slowly, letting the reality of the moment settle between us. Because beneath the lust, there’s satisfaction. Rightness.

No hesitation. No questioning why having her wrapped around me feels natural.

Genesis Romero is the only woman who’s ever sat behind me on a bike.

Not my mother. Not my sister. No one I’ve fucked.

“Fucking trouble since the day I met her.”

“What was that?”

“Hold on.” My tone is gruff as I remove my hands from her bare skin and turn the bike on, the Road Glide roaring to life beneath us with a deep, powerful rumble that vibrates through the seats. Straight into her body, and she jumps before letting out a nervous giggle.

Immediately after, her arms slide around my waist, fingers gripping my wifebeater.

My lips twitch.

“You did that on purpose,” she calls out, and two of those fingers around my waist pinch my side. “Such a jerk.”

Looking over my shoulder, I almost laugh at the annoyed expression on her face. “Do what?”

“You know exactly what you did.” That haughty and sassy tone is going to get her in trouble. I’m going to enjoy it, too. Her eyes narrow when she sees the beginning of a smile on my lips, but I turn around and nudge the kickstand.

Her breasts are pressed firmly against my back, her thighs hug my sides, and every time she adjusts behind me, the heat between them grazes my lower back. My cock is hard; I feel the drops of pre-come sliding from the engorged tip and down the underside before disappearing into the denim.

Every time she inhales, I throb.

Every time she says: Diosito, help me, I fight back a groan.

I pull away from the curb slowly, letting her get used to the bike. For the first few minutes, Genesis is stiff, arms locked around me with her thighs squeezing every time we lean slightly into a turn. Then we hit an open stretch of road…

I turn the throttle farther; the bike responds and so does she. A small squeal slips from her, carried by the wind as it turns into laughter. It’s bright and unrestrained, so much like her, and I like the sound enough to rev the engine again just to hear it.

“Santos!” she screams, arms tightening around me as we surge forward, and I chuckle. Low. Brief. Enough that she feels it through my back and pinches me again, and the small sting of pain does the opposite of correcting my behavior. If anything, I want to push harder.

Ride harder.

Make her scream for me.