Page 11 of Her Outlaw Biker (Vanishing With the Rebel #2)

Two Years Later

Clover

The wind hums through the trees, and the sunlight bathes everything in that late-afternoon gold that makes everything feel softer.

I lean against the porch railing, one hand resting on the swell of my belly, watching Jack work on the Harley in the backyard.

He’s shirtless, his back glistening with sweat, muscles flexing as he tightens something under the engine.

His dark hair’s longer now, a little wilder, curling at the ends.

There’s more stubble on his jaw, more laugh lines around his eyes.

He’s never looked more like home.

I let out a soft sigh, letting my mind wander like it so often does these days. The past feels like another lifetime. Like a fever dream I woke from in Jack’s arms and never had to return to.

The Iron Vultures never regrouped after Jack’s attack. I guess things were never quite the same again without Rigs as president. Cutter got nailed for weapons trafficking six months later—some federal sting he never saw coming. He’s rotting in a prison cell now, right where he belongs.

My dad was able to quit drinking, but then he passed away not long after everything settled.

Liver failure. It was fast. Quiet. I’d like to think he found some peace at the end, especially after we talked one last time.

It wasn’t perfect, but he looked me in the eye, told me he was proud.

That he was sorry. And somehow…that was enough.

Now, my days are filled with softer, lighter things.

Jack built us the cabin he promised me, out here in the hills, a good hour from the nearest town.

It’s cozy, filled with leather and wood and sunlight.

He fixed up a shop for me right beside the house, a little studio where I handcraft custom leather goods.

Jackets, bags, wallets…even the occasional biker vest. Word of mouth travels fast in this world, and business has been good. Real good.

And Jack? He spends his mornings in the backyard with grease on his fingers, tuning up bikes like it’s therapy.

Right now, he’s crouched beside a rusted old Harley, sleeves rolled up, tanned skin glinting with sweat, and I can’t stop watching him. My man. My protector. The love of my damn life.

I’m barefoot on our porch, belly round with our first baby, holding a tall glass of cold lemonade and smiling like some domestic daydream.

Turns out freedom doesn’t look like a roaring engine on an open desert road.

Sometimes, it looks like a porch swing, a man you’d die for, and a life you’d burn down the world to protect.

A soft kick taps against the inside of my belly, jerking me out of my thoughts. I smile, running my palm in slow circles over the round curve. “You’re gonna have your daddy’s hands,” I murmur to the baby. “Big and strong and always busy with something.”

Jack glances over his shoulder like he heard me. He always knows when I’m watching.

“Stop starin’, little bird,” he calls with a smirk, wiping his hands on a rag. “I’m sweaty and half-covered in grease.”

“You say that like it’s not my favorite version of you.” I grin and push off the railing. “Brought you something.”

I walk carefully down the porch steps, barefoot and slow, cradling the mason jar of lemonade in one hand and my belly with the other. Jack straightens and meets me halfway, taking the drink but pulling me in first, planting a kiss to my forehead before he even touches the glass.

“You okay?” he asks, his free hand sliding around my waist, fingers splaying over the curve of our baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because it is.

“Better than okay.” I tip my face up to his. “Watching you out here like this…it feels unreal sometimes.”

He sips the lemonade, then sets it aside and leans in to press his lips just below my ear. “It’s real, baby. This is ours. We earned every damn second of it.”

My cheeks flush, heat rising beneath my skin as he brushes a kiss down my neck.

“You’re dirty,” I murmur, half laughing, half aching for him.

I always ache for him.

He smirks against my throat. “You love me dirty.”

I swat at his chest, but it’s like swatting a brick wall. “We should head inside…the sun’s getting strong.”

“Mm. You mean where the bed is? Or the big, sturdy kitchen table?” His eyes glint as he leans down, voice thick with that low gravel that still makes my knees weak. “Or maybe right here in the grass, where the nearest neighbor is twenty miles that way and we can do whatever the hell we want?”

I go red all the way to my ears. “Jack…”

“What?” He’s grinning like a devil now. “You’re blushing like we haven’t been married a year and a half and you’re not knocked up with my kid.”

I bury my face in his chest, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you married me.”

He curls an arm under my thighs and lifts me before I can protest, like I weigh nothing at all. My breath hitches, hands flying to his shoulders.

“Jack!” I squeal. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

“Sweetheart, you weigh less than that old Harley and I dragged it up the hill last night.” He nuzzles into my neck, and just like that, I melt. “Besides, I want my kid to know I could carry both of you from the cabin to the damn mountain top if I had to.”

The words wrap around my heart like a warm blanket, and I bury my fingers in his hair, my eyes stinging a little.

He walks us back to the porch, kicking the screen door open with his foot, and doesn’t stop until he’s laid me out gently on the big, worn leather couch we picked out together in a secondhand shop in Missoula. He stretches out beside me, hand resting over our baby, eyes locked with mine.

“You ever think about how far we’ve come?” I whisper.

He nods slowly. “Every day.”

“And do you ever miss it? Your life before?”

He shakes his head. “Not even a little. I’ve got everything I need right here.”

His mouth brushes mine, slow and sweet and deep, and even though we’re two years and a thousand memories into this love, it still sets my soul on fire.

“Tell me again,” he breathes against my lips. “Why you stayed.” His voice is rough and full of reverence. Gratitude.

“Because you were worth staying for,” I say simply. “And now? Now you’re my forever.”

His hand slips beneath the hem of my dress, fingers dancing slow and reverent over my thigh, then higher. I gasp, already trembling under his touch.

“I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. “But don’t think for a second I don’t plan to make you feel every inch of how much I love you.”

His hands trail down my sides, and when he sinks to his knees in front of me, there’s nothing playful in his expression anymore. Just hunger. Reverence.

“I’ve been patient all week,” he growls, voice low and husky as he palms the sides of my thighs. “Watching you walk around in those tiny shorts…wearing my shirt with not a damn thing underneath.”

I tremble as he eases the dress up, baring my legs to the breeze. “I was hot…”

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his hands slowly up the backs of my thighs, “you have no idea.”

His leans forward to kiss my belly first, then lower, his tongue gently grazing my clit.

He starts to worship me like a man starved.

With every breath, every brush of his lips, he reminds me that no matter how many years pass, I’ll always be his obsession.

I writhe beneath him, gasping his name as he kisses between my thighs, slow and thorough, my body aching with sweet pleasure.

When he finally rises above me, shoving his jeans down his hips, I reach for him, needing him so much it aches.

“Now,” I whisper, trembling. “Please…”

He enters me with a groan, burying himself deep and stilling. His forehead presses to mine, both of us breathless, our bodies molding together perfectly.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs, his voice shaking with restraint. “Like home.”

And then he moves.

Slow at first, deep and unhurried, like he’s memorizing the way I feel all over again. His hand cups the back of my neck, his mouth devouring mine between moans and praise. I cry out his name, over and over, until my voice is hoarse and the world blurs behind tears of pleasure.

We fall apart together, lost in the throes of pleasure.

But even when the shudders fade and the high settles into a soft glow, he doesn’t let me go.

He kisses my cheek. My jaw. My lips. Then lifts me again, holding me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.

He heads straight for the bedroom, and lays me down on the bed like I’m breakable, brushing a hand over my swollen belly.

“Wasn’t done with you yet,” he mutters, voice darker now, laced with that edge that always makes me melt. “Gonna love you till the sun goes down. And then again till it rises.”

I reach for him, needy all over again. “Then stop talking and love me.”

His mouth crashes down on mine, all fire and hunger, and this time there’s no restraint. Just raw devotion and possessive need.

He takes me again, on the bed we made together, in the home we fought for. His name is a chant on my lips, and when I fall apart, I take him with me, clinging to him like he’s the center of my universe.

And even when we’re tangled in sweat and sighs, I know one thing for sure.

I’d choose him again. Every. Single. Time.

~The End