Page 32 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

Not fast. Not pressing.

I stand near enough to feel the warmth off her skin through wool. She does not step back.

The courage in that small stillness makes me want to get down on my knees.

“Marisa,” I say, her name wrapped in the way I mean it.

She looks up quickly and I see it, the shine that could turn to tears if a word comes wrong.

I put my palm open on the counter so she can see I am not trying to corner her.

“You do not have to pretend,” I tell her, voice low enough that only we hear it, “that you are not still ours.”

Her breath catches.

Her hand loosens on the mug, then tightens.

She sets it down very carefully on the counter, as if she is placing a breakable thing where it will not fall, and turns toward me with a small nod that feels like a gate opening.

I touch the side of her waist.

The sweater is soft.

The body under it is warm, familiar in a way that makes my ribs ache. She lifts her chin and I watch her decide.

It is not a pose. It is a choice.

There is nothing in me that wants to make this look like anything but the truth.

I lean in slowly enough to be stopped.

She does not stop me.

Her mouth meets mine.

The first press is soft.

I let it be soft.

I let it be careful.

The second finds depth.

Her fingers curl in the front of my shirt, and I feel the need under the caution, the relief under the ache.

I cup the back of her neck and promise to be kind there forever.

She tastes like cinnamon and sugar and the kind of winter that does not leave you lonely.

The fire pops. Roman stands.

I hear the chair legs scrape against the rug.

It is not a threat.

It is the sound of a man crossing a room he has waited a year to cross.

Deacon kills the lamp by the stove with a thumb against the switch.