Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance (27 page)

I’ve
got
to get one of these.

All I’d done was play passenger, and yet when he pulled up at my apartment complex I was the one who was breathing hard, blood pounding in my veins.

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. “This where we need to be?”

“Yeah,” I managed to get out. “Look, thanks for the ride.”

“No worries,” he said.

There was a long absence of talking. Cars blared by in the distance.

“You have to get off my bike before I can.”

I flinched. “Sorry.” I dismounted, and he did likewise, denim-clad legs flexing with the effort. My heart still pounded from the ride. And for a few other reasons.

“Would you like to come inside?”

He blinked at me. “How’s that?”

“You know, warm up a bit.” I paused, fidgeting. “It’s cold out here.”
Girl, what the hell are you doing?

“Sure,” he said.

We walked up the stairs in silence. Once at my door I dug through my purse; apparently my keys had chosen to hide at the bottom of my purse at the time I most wanted them to be at the top. After much fumbling I got my apartment door open.
Wow, I’m
so
lame.

I hung up my sweater and set my purse on the kitchen table. Gabriel stood in the entryway, hands in his jacket pockets. I realized he didn’t know where to go because the lights were still off. I winced and flipped some switches. “You...ah, want something to drink?”

“Alyssa?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you making a pass at me?”

I froze. “Um...what?”

“You heard me.”

Oh crap.
The Mothra in my stomach morphed into Godzilla, breathing fire into my chest and scorching my heart.

“Um...well, that is to say, I...“ I ran my fingers through my hair, forgetting I still had it up. Somehow rings, bobby pins and chopsticks all got tangled together. “I sort of...well, you know...” I tugged at my stuck fingers, but I couldn’t get them out. “I...” One chopstick fell out of my bun and clattered as it hit the floor.

You suck,
my issues hissed. The other chopstick followed the path of the first, my carefully crafted hairstyle collapsing like a half-baked cake.
You’re pathetic.
I knew I looked ridiculous; it was work not to cry.

Gabriel took two steps forward and slid his hands into the tangle I’d made. “Easy there,” he said in a warm tone, indigo eyes black in the dim light. “You snagged a bobby pin on your ring.”

“How does that even happen?”

“God’s got a sick sense of humor.”

Slowly he sorted out the mess, his fingers gentle. My hair fell loose around my shoulders once he was done. As close as he was I could smell him, the scents of sweat and leather and smoke mingling in my nose. My heart hammered against my ribs.

“I...I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said.

“That makes two of us.”

“I...look, I’ve been watching you and there’s
stuff
and I...“ My hands fluttered, useless.

“Just say what you feel, honey.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” I said.

Worst. Line. Ever.

“Okay,” he said, tracing one rough finger across my cheek. “I won’t.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering when we’d ended up in each other’s arms.
You don’t
know
him,
my mind insisted.
That’s the point,
a voice from deep inside me shouted, faint but louder than it had ever been.

“You sure about this?”

I had no words. I kissed him instead.

I had never kissed anyone before. I’d been kissed a few times but as I slid my hands up Gabriel’s neck and drew his face to mine, I learned how the two were as different as night and day. Our lips met on my terms, and a jolt went down my spine as I pushed myself deeper into his arms, pouring my want into the kiss I’d started. I worked my mouth against his until I ran out of breath, a moan springing unbidden from deep in my throat.

No, kissing and being kissed weren’t the same thing at all. After we broke apart I stared into his eyes while we stood forehead to forehead, my eyes locked on his.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, voice half a growl.

“You should.”

“I will,” he said, his hands sliding down my hips...and hoisting me into his arms. His mouth went to my throat, nipping just hard enough that I felt teeth; I gasped, sensation running down my spine like summer lightning as my legs went around his waist. I threw my arms around his neck and pressed my body against his.

“Bedroom?”

“Th-that way,” I said, waving my hand.
I’d never had anyone carry me to bed before.

Am I really doing this?
I sank my hands into his hair, planting kisses on his unshaven cheeks, my hips grinding against the front of his jeans
.
My back hit the bedroom door and opened it while my mouth worked at Gabriel’s ear.
Yes.
I kissed him harder, doing my best to ignore my fears and embrace the want I felt.
Yes I am.

He tossed me on my bed and crawled in after me, shedding his jacket and vest on the way, mouth fastening on mine as soon as we were close enough and hands sliding up under my blouse to unhook my bra, whispering across the skin I despised. I wanted to be touched but I didn’t want to be seen. Such had always been my problem. When my blouse fell away along with my bra I pulled closer to him so I could hide.

“It’s okay, honey,” he murmured into my hair, hands running up and down my bare back. “I like what I see.”

“You do?” My voice was a strangled whisper.

He cupped my cheek with his palm, drawing my face up so we could see eye-to-eye. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He kissed me, thumbs sliding over my nipples with a fierce brand of gentleness, and my fears melted before the heat of my want.
Fuck it, I’m doing this.
I forced my tongue deeper into his mouth, leaning into his touch.
I’m fucking
doing
this.

I pulled at his shirt and he helped me get it off him, sliding my hands across his chest; Gabriel wasn’t ripped, but I could feel the power in him as I traced my fingers down the flat wall of his stomach, daring to touch him with hands that grew bold all on their own. He growled in my ear when my hands found his cock, and I loved the sound of it as he tore at what remained of my clothing. I left off my awkward in-the-pants stroking and tore at his clothes in turn.
Fuck clothing,
I thought as we stripped garments from each other and threw them this way and that.
Fuck my issues, fuck my trauma.

“More,” I moaned.

“Relax,” he said, whispering into my bare leg between kisses along its length. “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”

Then his mouth found my clit and I could speak only in gasps; I writhed and whimpered while he worked me over with lips and tongue, my hands twisted deep in his hair. My spine arched into a question mark that wanted an answer like I’d never wanted anything in my life, the muscles in my back and thighs clenched like wire stretched to the breaking point.

Fuck the rules.
I hooked my arms under his and pulled him on top of me, sinking my mouth in his neck when he put his cock in me, every breath an animal pant, my nails and teeth buried in his flesh the same way his cock was buried in mine. My world narrowed to the rhythm of our bodies, his skin on my skin, the touch we shared.
Fuck everything.

When I came everything went away; a half-dozen thrusts later he joined me, head thrown back and teeth bared. A moment later his lips were at my cheek and his arms tight around me, his body hot as a furnace against mine.

It was a long time before my breathing came back to normal; when it did we were curled up beneath the sheets, his arms around my waist, his breath tickling the hairs on the nape of my neck. In that time, no one spoke. I enjoyed the warm-bath feeling as long as I could; I knew what would come after.

With the return of sanity and reason came an emotion I’d learned to fear; the sex hangover, that moment where guilt about what I’d done set in. It was like eating too much only worse. I might have been without clothing, but the sex hangover always made me feel naked in more ways than one. I pulled closer to him, seeking a thing I had no name for.

His arms went tighter around me. “You okay?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Look, I’m sorry if I was out of line,” he said.

I rolled over to look him in the eye. “No, you weren’t. You
so
weren’t. I just...well...” I laid my head against his chest. “I don’t usually do this.”

Thick fingers slid under my chin and tipped my head up so I was once again looking at his face. “It wouldn’t bother me any if you did.”

It took me three tries to get words out. “I think you mean that,” I said.

He ran a thumb across my cheek. “I do,” he said. “You think you the only one who was hoping to get noticed?”

“Wait...what?”

He grinned, that same easy smile I already wanted to see more of. “I noticed you, honey. I saw you looking at me. Why do you think I smiled back?”

I shook my head, confused. “But you didn’t
do
anything.”

“I only look at women who look at me,” he said. “I only talk to ones who talk to me. And I only flirt with ones who flirt first.”

“Why?”

His broad shoulders moved in a shrug. “It’s how I roll.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of much else to say to that. He settled me into the crook of his arm, pulling the sheets over us both.

“See you in the morning,” he said.

I believed him.

I woke up to an arm slung over my shoulders. It took me a minute to remember why it was there, not to mention who it belonged to. The nerves tried to come back, but the arm pulled me closer and I heard a vague
mmm
from behind me, a masculine sort of purr. A smile came to my lips, and before I knew it I had drifted back to sleep.

When I woke up for real I was alone. I sat up in tangled sheets, and without arms to hold me cold pragmatism stole into my thoughts. Where was the guy I’d gone to bed with?

I glanced around the room; my clothes were scattered about the foot of the bed as well as his T-shirt, his boots, vest and jacket leaning against my nightstand. His clothes being here meant he was still here.

There was a condom wrapper sitting next to my alarm clock and I relaxed a good deal. I couldn’t take birth control; between mood swings and weird appetite cravings the pill sent me straight to crazy town. With both my previous lovers I’d had to insist on using condoms, but last night I’d been too wound up to make an issue out of it. Gabriel had apparently used one anyway.

I ran my fingers through my sleep-tangled hair and shook my head. Trusting a guy to remember stuff like that was a great way to become a single mom. “Dumb,” I muttered.

I found my nightgown and robe and padded out into the hallway, intent on a shower. When I opened the door I heard rattling in the kitchen and smelled something warm and delicious. Curious, I turned the corner into the living room/kitchen instead...and stopped in my tracks.

I blinked once, long and slow. Did it again. No, my eyes hadn’t lied to me; there was in fact a large muscular man cooking French toast in my kitchen wearing only a pair of jeans.

Gabriel looked over his shoulder at me. “Morning, honey. Hungry?”

What. The hell.
“...yes?”

He grinned. “Good.”

“You need a hand?”

“Naw, I got this,” he said.

I took a seat at my kitchen table, watching him work – and, I had to admit, admiring the view. His arms and chest were covered by tattoos, some intricate, others fuzzy and faded; a Norse dragon took up the left half of his chest, arms a mishmash of skulls and barbed wire, a red scorpion on his right forearm. Three pale puckered circles of scar tissue sat on his shoulder, a ragged L of the same crawling across his stomach, all half-hidden by black hair.

Several minutes later both of us were sitting at my table munching on French toast. “This is delicious,” I said, meaning it.

“Glad you like,” he said. “It was all I could find the ingredients for.”