Page 21 of The Biker and His Bride

RILEY

W e’d dealt with bullets, bribery, and a Vegas wedding that made Elvis blush.

After Charleston, after the country club spectacle and a half-dozen whispers trailing us out the door, Rogue and I needed air—salty, sun-swept, no pearls or spinach quiche in sight.

The Isle of Palms felt like a different planet: dunes rolling soft like tan velvet, pelicans gliding overhead, sweetgrass nodding in the sea breeze.

The Airbnb was a weather-worn cedar house perched on stilts, white shutters, wraparound deck, and a hot tub that looked directly over the Atlantic. Inside it smelled like driftwood and sunscreen. A welcome note sat on the counter: *Kick off your shoes and stay awhile.*

We didn’t need to be told twice.

First thing, Rogue walked straight onto the deck, peeled off his shirt, and tipped his head back as if he meant to swallow the horizon.

“Better than neon?” I asked, stepping out behind him.

“Better than breathing,” he answered, and then he pulled me into a kiss so deep I forgot about tide charts and dinner plans.

We spent the afternoon barefoot. I unpacked tuna steaks from the cooler and Rogue fired up the charcoal grill on the deck, humming an old rock ballad while the coals turned ember-red.

He seasoned the fish with salt and lime, all simple perfection, then grilled corn until kernels popped and splashed juice.

We ate on the deck steps, legs dangling, sun sliding lower.

He fed me forkfuls, licking juice from my chin.

When the plates were scraped clean, we brewed French press coffee with beans Trigger swore were “roasted by Satan himself.” Strong enough to make the mug shake.

Rogue cooled mine with ice, swirling it in a mason jar until condensation beaded.

We clinked glasses and watched violet shadows stretch across the sand.

“Card game?” he asked, producing a dog-eared deck from his back pocket.

I raised a brow. “You haul that everywhere?”

“Only when I plan on stripping my wife of her clothes after she loses.”

“Bold of you to assume.”

We played three rounds of gin rummy at the rickety picnic table.

He won the first; I won the second; the third disintegrated when he slipped a queen of hearts up his sleeve and I accused him of cheating.

He tried to bribe me with kisses. I countered with an ice cube slipped down the back of his shorts.

The game ended in a tickle war that tumbled us onto the weathered planks, both breathless with laughter, sunburn blooming.

“You’re trouble, Mrs. Thorne,” he murmured, teeth grazing the curve of my shoulder.

“And you love it.”

He kissed me quiet.

By dusk, the ocean called. We left our phones inside, grabbed a faded beach blanket, and wandered down the private wooden walkway. Sand squeaked under our feet. The tide was rolling in heavy, waves cresting white. Moonrise painted silver on the water.

I stripped first—sundress over my head, nothing but a black bikini beneath. Rogue’s eyes tracked every inch, darkening like a storm bank. He lost the tank top, the board shorts, followed me into the surf.

The first wave hit waist-high, cool and insistent. I squealed and splashed him; he lunged, swept me against him. Salt spray kissed my cheeks, his lips tasted of sea and hunger. He cradled the back of my skull, tilting me into a kiss that was all tongue and tidal pull.

Another wave broke, pushing water up to our chests. He caught my thighs, lifted me so my legs wrapped around his waist. I clung, laughing into his mouth.

“Rogue, we’ll get caught,” I gasped when he nipped my earlobe.

“Only if they have night-vision,” he growled.

Water rushed between us; I felt him hard against my center even through wet fabric. Heat spiraled low in my belly. I rocked once—small, testing. His grip tightened.

“Off,” he ordered, reaching behind to untie the knot of my bikini top. Saltwater slicked his fingers but he worked the knot free, then another. The top fell away, floating like dark seaweed. His palm covered my bare breast, thumb brushing my nipple until it peaked from heat and chilled night air.

Lightning streaked far out over the ocean—silent, spectacular. He watched the flash flicker across my skin, made a raw sound in his throat.

“Never seen anything this beautiful,” he said.

I believed him because his voice broke on the word *beautiful*.

He carried me out past the breakers until water came to his ribs, then let gravity slide me down. I treaded water, legs brushing his. He reached, hooked fingers in the waistband of my bikini bottoms. I shivered as he peeled them down, the fabric sliding off my ankles, disappearing into the dark.

“Now you,” I whispered.

He pushed his trunks down, letting them drift away.

Wordless. Waves rocked us. He cupped my face, kissed me slow, letting me taste his confession—the relief of survival, the promise of forever.

Then I felt him guide me, the press of him slipping between my legs with the gentle inevitability of tide meeting shore.

I wrapped arms around his neck, legs around his waist. He thrust shallow at first, adjusting to balance and waves. Water splashed against shoulders, stars spun overhead. The ocean was warm silk against our hips and thighs.

“Logan,” I murmured, nails digging into wet skin.

“Say my name again,” he demanded, voice ragged.

“Logan,” louder this time, and he thrust deep.

Pleasure cracked through me like surf against jetty.

I buried my moan in his mouth, tasting salt and want.

He angled deeper, rhythm syncing to the push-pull of waves.

Our bodies found a cadence—ebb, flow, surge.

Far-off thunder rolled as lightning lit our drenched, naked forms in electric white.

Climax hit like undertow. My breath stuttered. He swallowed my cry, hissing my name as he followed, hips driving once, twice, then shuddering to stillness. We clung there, drifting, hearts pounding.

When our legs trembled from treading water, he carried me ashore. Sand stuck to our wet skin. He laid me on the blanket, kissed the grains from my shoulders, down my chest, across my belly.

“I’m not done,” he said, grin feral in moonlight.

We made love again, slower, on soft sand while waves hissed mere feet away.

Later, wrapped in the blanket, we watched moonlit foam paint silver ribbons on the beach. He rubbed my legs, murmuring nonsense until chills faded.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

“Mmm?”

He pulled a jar from the tote bag—my coconut lotion. “Dream ended too soon in Vegas.”

Heat flushed. He squeezed a dollop into his palm, warmed it, then began spreading it up my calves. The scent of coconut bloomed, thick and sweet, mixing with salt and sex.

His slick hands glided over my knees, thighs, hips. He massaged my belly, across ribs, up to breasts. Everywhere he touched left my skin glowing. My pulse galloped. By the time he reached the curve of my neck, I was molten.

“You smell like paradise,” he said, voice gravel. “Paradise that belongs to me.”

I pulled him down, whispered filthy promises. He fulfilled every one—on the blanket, then against the porch railing back at the house, then in the heart-shaped hot tub just before dawn.

—

Daylight found us sprawled in bed, muscles languid. Rogue rose first, brewed coffee strong enough to revive the dead. He brought two mugs, set them on the bedside table, and crawled under the sheets.

“Morning, wife.”

“Morning, outlaw.”

We sipped coffee, feet tangled. After caffeine we rummaged through the pantry and found pancake mix, chocolate chips, maple syrup. He manned the griddle while I chopped strawberries. We ate on the deck, chocolate smeared on mouths, sticky fingers licked clean.

The afternoon rolled hot and slow. He read an old paperback western in a hammock.

I lounged beside him with a dog-eared thriller.

Occasionally we swapped books or kisses or both.

When sweat beaded under my bikini, we took the kayaks out and paddled through marsh channels, herons bursting into flight ahead of us.

At sunset, he fired the grill again—steaks this time, searing over open flame, asparagus wrapped in foil with garlic. He mixed bourbon and sweet tea in mason jars. We clinked to sunsets, to scars, to second chances.

And after we ate, he carried me back to bed, coconut lotion in hand, eyes smoldering, moonlight slicing across muscle and ink.

We didn’t leave the island for three days.

We loved until the lotion jar emptied, until the sunburns faded, until laughter stitched every bruise.

And on the fourth morning, when we finally packed up to ride back to Sable Creek, Rogue pulled me against the bike, kissed the ring on my finger, and said, “Next time I buy property, it’s gonna face the ocean.”

“Beach house?” I teased.

“Beach house,” he affirmed. “For our future.”

I thought of sun-bleached porches, tiny coconut-scented footprints, maybe a little Harley trike engine revving on the sand.

Paradise had never felt so possible.

And for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be home wherever his arms were.