Page 22 of The Biker and His Bride

ROGUE

L eaving the Isle of Palms felt like trying to crawl out of a dream that still clung to my skin.

Sunlight streamed through the bedroom’s sheer curtains, turning the waves outside into molten silver.

Riley lay sprawled across the sheets, naked, brown as honey, the tan lines of her bikini painting pale ribbons over her hips and the swell of her breasts.

Her hair had picked up gold streaks in the salt and sun—wild highlights that shimmered every time she moved.

I propped myself on an elbow and took my time looking.

She always said I stared too much. She never understood it was because I still couldn’t quite believe she was real, that after everything—gunfire, broken vows, country-club sneers—I ended up here, with her, in a house that smelled like sunscreen and coffee grinds.

She sighed, rolling toward me, sleepy smile curving her lips. “Why are you awake?”

“Can’t sleep.” I brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “Dangerous angel in my bed.”

Her lashes fluttered. “You’re cheesy.”

“Only for you.” I leaned down and kissed her shoulder, tasting salt and coconut. My hand followed the pale triangle of her tan line down to the small of her back. Even that contrast turned me on—proof of long days tangled in the sun with nothing between us but heat.

She gasped softly when my palm cupped her hip. “Again?” she whispered.

“Always.”

We’d christened every surface in the beach house over the past week—blankets, counter, hot tub, sand. But the outdoor shower on the deck had become our chapel. A cedar stall half open to the ocean breeze, big enough for two if we didn’t mind bumping into each other—and we never minded.

I coaxed her upright, her body pliant in my hands. A sunbeam feathered over the arch of her spine; I traced it with my mouth, feeling her shiver.

“Logan, the neighbors?—”

“No neighbors for two lots.” I grinned. “And if they complain, I’ll buy the place.”

She laughed, low and throaty. “You would.”

In the shower, warm water hit our shoulders, steam swirling away into blue sky.

She braced her palms on the cedar wall, back arched, and I pressed kisses down her neck, across her tan line, worshipping the contrast. My hands slid to her hips, thumbs stroking the hollows there.

She made a sound—half sigh, half moan—that tightened every muscle in my body.

I took my time, lathering soap along her arms, across her breasts, watching suds streak brown skin.

Every curve, every freckle glowed under sunlight shards cutting through the slats.

She pushed back against me, and I felt the heat between her thighs, a silent plea.

I slid inside her slowly—no rush, no fight, only that perfect fit that made the world drop away.

Water beat down like warm rain. Her hips rocked. I guided her pace, one hand pressed flat to her belly, the other tangled in salt-damp hair. She moaned my name, soft and urgent. I bent, teeth grazing her shoulder just enough to make her gasp.

I thought about seed and soil—how maybe life grew easiest in sunshine and storms. About the idea of a baby with her smile and my stubborn streak tearing around club grounds on a tiny bike. It filled my chest so full it hurt.

When we both tumbled over the edge, her cry lost in the roar of the surf below, I held her tight, burying my face in her damp hair. “Mine,” I whispered.

“Yours,” she breathed.

We stayed under the spray until water cooled, then wrapped ourselves in oversized towels and padded into the kitchen.

I brewed coffee strong enough to wake the dead, added a splash of sweetened condensed milk the way she liked it.

She fried eggs in the cast-iron skillet, humming some pop song off-key.

After breakfast we started packing—tossing swimsuits, sunscreen, and half-read paperbacks into duffel bags. I found her bikini buried in the sandy laundry pile and held it up, twirling it on one finger.

“Keep this somewhere safe,” I said. “Tan-line maker.”

She blushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love.”

Her smile faltered, eyes shining. “I don’t want to go back yet.”

“Neither do I.” I came behind her, arms slipping around her waist. “But the club needs us.”

“And the house?”

“We’ll build it.” I kissed the top of her ear. “First the cabin behind the clubhouse. Then—whatever you want. Porch swings, ocean view, nursery.”

She leaned back, breath hitching at the last word. “You think?—”

“I hope.” My palm spread over her flat stomach. “Been planting seeds.”

Color rushed her cheeks. “Mr. Thorne, you are a romantic.”

“Don’t spread that rumor. I’ve got a reputation.”

We loaded the bike. She straddled behind me, arms looping my waist. Before I revved the engine, I glanced back at the house—the cedar, the deck, the outdoor shower still dripping. An ache tugged at me.

One more night, I thought. One more moonlit hour with her taste on my tongue, her laugh echoing off the dunes.

But war and love share one truth: the world doesn’t wait.

I kicked up the stand, and we thundered off the island bridge, wind whipping her hair into gold flames.

Four hours later we rolled through Fire Skulls’s gates. Engines idled. Brothers gathered, nodding greetings. Trigger handed me a beer. Diesel whistled low at Riley’s sun-kissed legs.

“Damn, Prez,” he said. “Island life looks good on both of you.”

Riley blushed; I glared, and Diesel backed off, chuckling.

Inside, the clubhouse felt smaller, louder, rougher after our week of surf and hush. Riley bit her lip, scanning the bunk rooms, the bar, the row of helmets hung on pegs.

“This used to feel like home,” she murmured. “Now it’s… loud.”

“We’ll build quiet,” I promised, steering her toward the back door. Beyond the fence, a rough patch of pines sloped down to a creek. I pointed. “Cabin goes there. Two rooms, big windows, wood stove. Privacy. Until the main house.”

Her eyes shone again—hope, relief, love all tangled. She turned beneath my arm and pressed her lips to mine, simple and sweet.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“For what?”

“For giving me everything I never dreamed I could ask for.”

I kissed her again—deeper this time, tongues tangling, not caring who saw. The club hollered behind us, whistling, catcalling. I flipped them off without breaking the kiss.

“Get a room!” Pitbull roared.

“Building one!” I shot back.

Riley laughed into my mouth.

That night, after the clubhouse quieted, I sprawled on the cot with her curled against me, and planned the cabin walls in my head—plank by plank, nail by nail. I pictured a porch swing, a baby cradle, a life strung between ocean breezes and engine growls.

Sleep tugged, but I fought it just long enough to whisper a prayer I didn’t know I still believed in:

Let the seed take root.

Let her carry sun and storm inside her.

Let this outlaw’s heart finally grow something soft.

Then I slept, one hand on her belly, dreams filled with coconut, tide songs, and the laughter of a child I hadn’t met yet—but already loved.