Page 43 of Hungry As Her Python

“Okay. Let me help you,” he murmured, voice low enough to make my spine tingle.

Before I could protest—or, you know, flee—he swung one long leg over the motorcycle like some kind of leather-clad ballet dancer and crouched down in front of me.

My pant leg had gotten snagged on something near the foot peg, and apparently, this was his cue to play knight in shining denim.

“Thanks,” I managed, trying to sound brisk and unbothered, even as I stood there frozen like I’d been hit with a body-bind spell.

Because here’s the thing—when Conrad Boman was this close, all my good sense packed up and went on vacation without me.

My panties soaked. My chest heaved. And my entire being went on high alert.

“I know you have rules for a reason, Bella,” he said, his head bent, deft fingers working at the fabric. “And I’m here if you ever want to discuss them. But just so you know?—”

Oh no.

The just so you know tone was dangerous.

That was the tone of men who thought they were about to change your mind about something.

The tone of trouble.

And he was definitely trouble.

The sexy, square-jawed, snake-eyed kind of trouble my hormones insisted on throwing confetti over.

The fabric finally came free, and in one smooth, predator-like motion, Conrad stood. Blond waves fell into his face in that perfect, rockstar-messy way no man should be allowed to pull off outside of a shampoo commercial.

And yes.

Damn it.

He was hot.

Super hot.

The kind of hot you wanted to lick just to see if it burned.

Then, because the universe wanted me to suffer, the same hand that had freed my pant leg didn’t immediately retreat. Oh, no.

It smoothed over my calf—slowly.

Then my knee.

Then higher.

By the time it grazed my hip, my body was staging a full-scale rebellion against my brain.

I had a thousand arguments for why this was a bad idea, but they were drowned out by one very loud, very inappropriate thought: don’t stop.

And it was that thought—traitorous and wanton—that made me narrow my eyes at his ridiculously green gaze.

Because here was the truth, the one I hated saying even in my own head: I didn’t believe a man who looked like Conrad—who could’ve been cast as a demigod in a blockbuster movie—could ever be serious about someone like me.

Yes, I was cute.

Yes, I could bake circles around Martha Stewart in a throwdown.

But I wasn’t built like the women who usually hung off the arms of men like him.