Page 6 of Her Possessive Biker (Savage Kings MC #2)

Cassie

I wake to heat and weight and the steady thrum of a heartbeat under my ear. For a second I do not know where I am. Then the scent finds me. Cedar, smoke and his manly scent. Holt.

My cheek is on his chest. One of his arms is locked around my waist like a band of iron.

The blanket is kicked down around our hips and a square of gold morning light lies across his shoulders.

Lucy is a gray lump at the foot of the bed, one eye on me like a guard who pretends she does not care.

I shift and everything inside me reminds me of last night. A sweet ache. Soft and deep. Not pain. Proof. My face warms. I bite my lip and try not to smile like a fool.

His hand flexes over my hip. The rough pad of his thumb strokes once. He is awake. I lift my head. His eyes are half open, silver and soft in the light.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Hi.” I sound shy and I hate it, except I do not hate it at all.

He tips my chin with two fingers. Looks at me like he is checking for cracks. “You okay?” he asks. “Sore?”

“A little.” I tell the truth. “But good.”

Something in his face eases. He draws me closer and I tuck my leg over his. He is warm everywhere. Solid everywhere. His palm slides slowly along the back of my thigh and I feel his breath change.

I swallow. My body answers before my mind does. My skin wakes up, inch by inch. I want him again. I did not know it could be like this. I did not know I could feel like this and still be me.

He feels me tense and does not push. He waits. The patience of that makes my eyes sting for no reason I can explain.

“Tell me what you need,” he says quietly.

I do not know how to say it without sounding foolish. I try anyway. “I want you. But maybe slow. Maybe… can I be on top?”

The heat in his eyes goes from warm to molten. He props himself on his elbows and nods once. “You set the pace,” he says. “You take what you want.”

My hands are not steady, but I move. I swing a leg over his hips and sit up. He looks huge like this, all hard muscle and ink and restraint, his hands braced on my thighs like he is holding himself back by force.

“Beautiful,” he says. The word lands low in my belly.

I rise up on my knees, guide his hard cock with a hand that is not as steady as I want it to be, and slowly sink down around him. The stretch makes me gasp. He freezes, hands tight on my hips, eyes locked on my face.

“Breathe,” he says.

I do. The ache softens as my body remembers him. I take more of him. All of him. The feeling is a perfect kind of full. I sit there, caught on the edge of something bigger than me, and his eyes go dark the way sky gets before a storm.

“You okay?” he asks again, voice low.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I am.”

I start to move. It is slow at first. Careful. He takes his hands from my hips and laces his fingers with mine instead, like he knows I need that connection. Our palms press together and our arms create that small frame around each other.

I find a rhythm and watch his mouth open on a harsh breath. My cheeks flame with pride. I am doing this. I am making this man feel something with nothing but me.

“Cassie,” he says, and my name comes out like a prayer that has teeth.

I lean down and kiss him. He meets me and the kiss is deep and warm and almost reverent. His hands travel up to the small of my back. He strokes the base of my spine and I shiver. I ride him slow and steady until my thighs tremble.

He sits up, brings our chests together, and moves with me so my effort is shared. He holds the back of my neck and kisses me again and again, softer, then harder, then soft again, like he is mapping out how to speak to me without words.

The heat gathers fast. I try to chase it and I lose it and then find it again. He feels it happen and adjusts the angle of my hips with strong hands and a rough breath against my mouth. Suddenly every slide hits that place inside me that makes my thoughts scatter like birds.

“Good girl,” he says. “That is it. Take it. Take all of it.”

I let go. My nails press into his shoulders and I come with my forehead against his, breath breaking and voice gone. He curses softly and follows me under, pulling me down tight while his whole body locks. I feel the shudder take him and it makes me feel powerful and small and safe all at once.

We fall back to the pillows in a tangle of limbs, hearts racing. He keeps me close and rolls onto his side so I am tucked into him like a secret. I breathe and try to come back to myself. He strokes my hair back from my face with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.

“You okay?” he asks again. He never gets tired of asking. I never get tired of hearing it.

“Better than okay,” I say. “I am… perfect.”

He smiles. A real one. It softens him, makes him human in a way that steals my breath. He kisses my temple, then the corner of my mouth.

“Shower,” he says. “Then food. You need water too.”

“Bossy,” I murmur. My voice comes out lighter than it feels. My whole body hums. Not from want, but from this strange, unfamiliar thing that feels like care.

“Get used to it,” he says.

He gets up first and offers his hand. I take it. My legs are shaky, but his hand is steady. When I sway, his arms are already around me, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing.

I don’t argue. I just hold on.

The bathroom is warm, full of steam and the scent of eucalyptus and soap. He sets me gently on the edge of the counter and turns on the water. He tests the temperature twice, like he’s making sure it won’t touch me wrong. Then he steps under the spray and reaches for me.

The moment I step in, he turns me so my back rests to his chest, my spine fitting neatly along his. His arms curve around my waist. The water pours down, hot and comforting, and for a moment we are still.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmurs.

“It doesn’t,” I say quietly. “It just feels like I have a body again.”

He makes a sound in his chest that’s almost a laugh. Then he reaches for the shampoo.

He lathers it between his palms and works it through my hair with slow, sure fingers. He massages the back of my scalp until my eyes drift closed. Then he guides me under the spray to rinse, the water cascading over my face and neck.

His touch is careful. Gentle. And when his thumbs pass near the marks on my wrist, he stills.

I feel him look.

“Does that hurt?”

“Only if you press.”

He lifts my wrist to his mouth. Presses a kiss to the skin. Not a heated one. Not lust. Just care.

He finishes quickly, rinses me off, then hands me the washcloth.

He hands me the cloth.

“Your pace,” he says. “Or I’ll end up washing you all over again.”

I raise a brow. “That a threat or a promise?”

His mouth tilts, and he steps back under the spray. “Yes.”

I roll my eyes but reach for him anyway.

I start at his chest, careful with the soap. The muscles under my hands shift with each breath he takes. His skin is warm, marked by old scars and tattoos, and I trace one along his ribs with the cloth before my fingers follow without thinking.

His eyes open, dark and steady, as he catches my hand and presses it flat to his chest.

“This,” he says quietly, “is yours.”

I can’t find words for what that does to me.So I just hold my hand there a little longer and hope he understands.

He turns off the water and wraps me in a towel, then another around my hair. I don’t know what to say, so I let him lead me back into the bedroom where the sun is just starting to stream in through the window.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says.

The sound of eggs hitting the pan is oddly perfect. He moves as if he’s done it a hundred times. Efficient, quiet, calm. Like breakfast is part of keeping someone safe.

I find a can of cat food in a small basket tucked near the fridge and pop it open for Lucy, who hops onto the stool next to mine and gives me a judgmental stare before she eats like she hasn’t been fed in a week.

When I look over, Holt is plating the eggs and toast. He adds a few sliced strawberries on the side like he’s been doing it all his life, like he keeps fruit in his fridge for no reason until it finds one.

Then he pulls the lemon bars from the counter.

“I figured we earned these,” he says.

He cuts two squares and sets one on each of our plates. The powdered sugar melts just a little from the warmth of the eggs.

He hands me my breakfast and sits across from me with his own plate.

I take a bite. The eggs are fluffy. The toast is buttery. The lemon bar is tart and soft and sweet in a way that makes something in my chest ache.

“This is really good,” I say.

“I told you,” he says simply. “I can keep you fed.”

My cheeks flush. I don’t know why that means so much.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. Lucy hops down, satisfied. The world feels soft around the edges, like nothing bad can touch us here.

And then his phone buzzes.

Holt reaches for it, eyes narrowing as he reads. The air changes. His whole body goes still.

He sets the phone down, but his jaw stays tight.

“What is it?” I ask.

His voice is calm. Too calm.

“We need to go.”