Page 41 of My Reckless Biker

"Come on," she says, and her hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me toward the stairs.

I follow her up and into her room and she closes the door. Points to the bed.

"Sit."

I sit.

She goes into the bathroom and I hear water running. She comes back with a wet cloth and the first aid kit and kneels in front of me between my legs.

Her hands take mine and she starts cleaning the blood off, gentle and methodical, and I watch her face while she works. She's not disgusted. Not scared. Just focused.

I'm very aware of her positioned between my thighs, of the soft curves of her body visible even in the plain shirt and jeans she's wearing, of the way her breasts move slightly when she reaches for the cloth again, of her thick thighs where she's kneeling.

My body responds despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, and I have to force myself to focus on something else.

"Is he dead?" she asks quietly without looking up.

"No. But he's finished. Broken ribs, shattered orbital bone, broken nose, fractured cheekbone. Won't be a problem for months."

"Good."

She finishes my hands and moves to my face, dabbing at the split skin on my cheekbone. Her touch is gentle and I'm close enough to see the exact color of her eyes, close enough to smell whatever soap she used earlier.

"You really okay?" she asks, and I can hear worry underneath the calm.

"Yeah. Tate pulled me off before I went too far. Got intel from Dutch. Crane's done being strategic. He wants Vigil destroyed now."

She's quiet for a moment, still cleaning blood from my face.

"My father doesn't know how to lose," she says. "When something's taken from him, he doesn't stop until he's taken something back."

"Then he's going to fail. You're not his anymore."

"He doesn't see it that way."

"Don't care how he sees it. You're mine if you want to be. And I'm not giving you back."

She sets the cloth down and her hands come up to cup my face, careful of the swelling.

She leans in and kisses me gently, avoiding the swollen parts. It's softer than the other kisses we've shared.

I pull her up onto my lap and she straddles me, settling her weight on my thighs, and we kiss like that. Not desperate or rough. Just slow and real.

When we break apart she rests her forehead against mine.

"I was terrified the whole time," she says quietly. "That you wouldn't come back."

"I came back."

"I know. But I realized if you didn't, I would never get to—" She stops.

"Get to what?"

She pulls back to look at me.

"Tell you I love you," she says.

The words hit me hard, settle in my chest and stay there.