Page 8 of Her Dirty Biker (Savage Kings MC #3)

Chapter eight

Willow

The clock says noon, but it feels later. Diesel hasn’t been gone long, but I’m anxious for his return.

I boil water for tea. I need something to do with my hands. Something normal. Something that doesn’t remind me I’m in a safehouse because someone might want me dead.

Someone I accidentally overheard. I never asked for this. Never wanted to need a man like Diesel to save me. Yet, when he’s near, I feel safe in a way I’ve never felt before, not even when I was a kid, especially not then.

I’m halfway through my second mug when I hear the rumble of his bike. It’s low and growling and familiar already, like thunder after a dry summer.

My pulse kicks up as he walks through the door.

His hair’s a mess from the ride. Jaw tight. His eyes are wild and stormy.

He’s wearing a plain black tee, sleeves stretched over arms I’ve already gripped in the heat. His cut is gone, tossed somewhere, and I swear there’s blood under one of his fingernails.

“You’re back,” I say. It comes out softer than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. “Took you long enough.”

“I had things to handle.” His voice is rough. Raw. But the second his eyes sweep down my body, my bare thighs, the way his shirt hangs too big on me, the tension between us spikes again.

“You always walk around like that?” he asks.

“Only when I’m waiting for you.”

Shit.

Why did I say that?

Diesel shuts the door with one hand and leans back against it like he needs it to hold him up. His eyes lock on mine.

“You hoping for something, little fox?”

Yes. No. Always.

Instead of answering, I swallow hard. “You hungry?”

His gaze drags down my legs again. “Not for food.”

I’m blushing now. I can feel it. I want to tease him, want to needle him with some snarky comment to break the heat stretching taut between us, but I can’t seem to form words.

“Come here,” he says.

Two words. That’s all it takes. My feet move before my brain catches up.

He pulls me in by the waist and kisses me like he needs it to breathe. Like he’s been starving for my mouth since the second he left. His hands are everywhere, spanning my back, gripping my hips, sliding up under the hem of his shirt.

“You wearin’ anything under this?” he rasps.

“No.”

His groan is downright sinful. “You tryna kill me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I whisper, fingers fisting in his shirt.

He scoops me up like I weigh nothing and carries me back to the bed. I cling to him, every touch making my skin come alive. He lays me down like I’m precious, like I’m his.

His mouth trails down my body, slow and reverent. He kisses between my breasts, my ribs, my hips. I arch off the bed when he finally slides his tongue between my thighs, and I don’t even try to hold back the moan.

“Diesel, oh my God…”

“That’s it,” he growls against me. “Say my name. Let me hear how much you love this.”

I do, over and over. My hands are in his hair, my hips grinding against his face because it’s too much and not enough all at once.

I come apart on his tongue, loud, writhing, crying out his name.

Later, when we’re tangled up again, soft kisses trailing between sharp breaths, he strokes my hair and says something I’ll never forget.

“You ruin me, baby.”

I rest my head on his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He kisses my forehead and holds me tighter.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

I whisper back, “Maybe we deserve each other.”