Page 4 of Her Dirty Biker (Savage Kings MC #3)

Chapter four

Diesel

The sound of my boots echoes through the garage as I stalk toward the back bay, jaw tight, hands clenched.

I’ve already worked on two bikes today, rebuilt a busted primary, and still I’m crawling out of my skin. My muscles burn from overuse, my shirt soaked in sweat, but none of it helps. Not when she keeps slipping into my head every time I so much as blink.

Willow.

Those wide eyes. That sassy fucking mouth. The shape of her legs when she shifts in her seat, drawing my attention like a goddamn siren.

And last night in the hallway? I nearly fucking kissed her. Stupid. Dangerous. Completely out of line.

She’s too young, too soft, too trusting. She doesn’t belong in my world, doesn’t understand it, and sure as hell shouldn’t want a man like me.

But the way she looked at me…

Fuck.

I slam the wrench onto the workbench harder than necessary. My boss, Wrench, laughs behind me but wisely keeps his mouth shut. He knows I don’t like small talk when I’m brooding.

Which is often.

I lean over the Harley’s engine, but it’s no good. I can’t concentrate. All I see is the flicker of her smile, the flash of fear she tries to hide. I keep remembering the way her breath hitched when I touched her—the warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips.

That girl’s in my blood already, and it’s been less than forty-eight hours.

Too fast. Too much. Too dangerous.

The garage door rumbles open behind me. I turn and spot Rock stepping inside, sunglasses tucked into his cut, expression unreadable.

“You’re avoiding your phone,” he says flatly.

“Been busy.”

He looks at the half-disassembled bike, then back at me. “Looks like you’re spinning wheels.”

I sigh, scrub a hand over my jaw. “She’s still in the safehouse. Locked up tight.”

“Any movement from the Sons?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I don’t like that Langford’s sniffing around again.”

Rock’s brows pinch. “The suit?”

“Yeah. He was at the casino again yesterday. Talking to Guardrail as if they were old friends. I got nothing concrete, but it’s shady as hell.”

Rock grunts. “You think Willow heard more than she realizes?”

“Maybe.” I shift my weight, restless. “Hell, she didn’t even know what a ‘cut’ was until I explained it. She’s new. Green. But she’s not stupid.”

“No,” Rock agrees. “She’s just in over her head.”

“Which is why I’m keeping her there until we know what the fuck is going on.”

Rock steps closer, lowering his voice. “You sure that’s all you’re doing?”

I go still.

“You getting personal with this one, Diesel?”

My first instinct is to deny it. But I’ve never lied to Rock. Won’t start now.

“I’m trying not to.”

He nods once, slowly. “Trying’s not the same as succeeding.”

“I’ve got it under control.”

“You'd better.”

I bristle. “You think I’d put her ahead of the Kings?”

“I think you already are. ” He looks me over. “The way it should be.”

That lands like a fucking punch to the gut. Because part of me knows he’s right. Part of me is scared he’s right.

“She doesn’t belong in this shit,” I say quietly. “But now that she’s seen it, we don’t have a choice.”

“You saying she’s a liability?”

“I’m saying she’s innocent.”

Rock’s jaw ticks up into almost a smile. “Not for long.”

He turns and walks out without another word.

Later that night, I ride.

The wind doesn’t help. The cold doesn’t bite the way I need it to. I end up circling back to the safehouse, my bike rumbling low as I pull up the gravel drive and kill the engine.

The porch light’s on. A warm, yellow glow spills onto the steps.

And then there she is, Willow, standing just inside the screen door, wearing nothing but one of my old T-shirts that hangs too big on her and clings in all the wrong ways.

Her bare legs are like a fucking invitation to sin.

“Hey,” she says, stepping onto the porch.

“Hey.”

My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.

She folds her arms, shifting nervously. “You were gone a while.”

“Had things to do.”

She nods, but something flickers in her eyes. Disappointment? Hurt?

“You hungry?” she asks.

“I’m always hungry.”

It’s a bullshit answer, but she smiles anyway. “There’s leftover pizza. You like pepperoni?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll eat whatever.”

She tilts her head. “You always this easy to please?”

“Maybe.” I take a step closer. “But you keep feeding me, and we’ll find out.”

The air between us tightens. She’s close now, so close I can smell her shampoo and the faintest trace of vanilla lotion. Her fingers twitch at her side.

“I don’t know what to do here,” she whispers. “With you.”

“Then don’t do anything,” I murmur.

She sucks in a breath, eyes locked on mine.

“Diesel…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“I know.”

“I probably should be.”

“Probably.”

We stand there in silence, our bodies swaying toward each other without meaning to. I want to touch her. Fuck, I ache to. I also know if I cross that line, there’s no going back.

She’s twenty-one. A baby compared to me. And yeah, I’ve seen things, done things, that would curl her pretty little toes.

She deserves a nice, boring guy with a 401 (k) and a golden retriever. Not a biker with blood on his hands and scars no one sees.

But when she looks at me like that—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed—I’m not a fucking saint. I’m a man. And this girl’s my fucking kryptonite.

I step closer. Her chest rises with a shaky breath, and then—

A loud crash sounds inside. Something falls in the kitchen.

I spin, instincts flaring, hand already reaching for the knife at my hip.

Willow gasps and stumbles back. “What was that?”

“Stay here.”

I burst through the door and sweep the space quickly. It’s just a pan, knocked off the counter by a damn raccoon who somehow jimmied the back screen door open.

But the tension lingers.

I return to the porch. She’s still standing there, shaking slightly.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Just a nosey animal.”

She swallows. “I thought—”

“I know.”

Without thinking, I wrap my arm around her and pull her in.

She doesn’t resist. She melts. My hand curves over her lower back, fingers splaying against warm skin just under the hem of her shirt. She shivers.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispers into my chest.

“Yeah,” I agree. “The worst.”

“So why does it feel like the only one?”

I lean down, my lips a breath from her temple. “Because it is.”