Page 9 of My Enemy Biker

The words snap out sharp and I watch her realize she said it before she meant to. We're too close now. Something shifts in me from irritation to something hungrier.

"You want proof," I say, voice dropping. "What would count as proof?"

"Keeping your promises. Following through on the terms we set. Not using my road without permission."

"We haven't used it."

"Yet."

"You don't trust me."

"I don't know you!"

The volume surprises us both. She's breathing harder, angry and frustrated and something else underneath that I recognize because I'm feeling it too.

"You could," I say.

The words hang there. She looks at me like she's trying to figure out what I mean.

I'm tired of this. Tired of defending myself against comparisons to men who had no code, no limits, no honor. Tired of her treating me like I'm going to prove her worst assumptions right.

Tired of wanting her and fighting it.

"You want to know what makes us different?" I ask. "What makes me different from the men in Detroit?"

"Yes." She steps closer, getting in my space. Challenging. "Tell me what makes you so different."

I move fast. Cup her face with both hands. "This."

Then I kiss her.

She makes a sound, surprise or anger or want, and then her hands are fisting in my shirt and she's kissing me back just as hard.

Fighting me. Matching me. Giving nothing.

It's exactly what I wanted.

I walk her backward until her spine hits a tree. My hands slide into her hair, grip, control the angle. She gasps and I use it, deepen the kiss, taste her. She tastes like anger and want and something I can't name but need more of.

Her leg comes up around my hip.

I catch her thigh, thick and soft under my palm, hold it there and press against her. She rolls her hips and the friction makes me groan into her mouth.

My hand slides up her thigh.

The shorts are thin. When I reach the top I realize she's not wearing anything under them. That knowledge fractures what's left of my control.

I break the kiss, move to her throat. Bite down where her pulse is jumping and she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.

My hand moves under her tank top, finds bare skin, keeps going until I'm cupping her breast. Full and heavy in my palm. Perfect.

I squeeze and she gasps, nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.

"Cain—"

I don't know if that's a warning or encouragement and I don't care. My thumb brushes her nipple and she arches into my hand, making that sound again.

My other hand slides from her thigh toward the center of her. I can feel heat even through the fabric.