Page 7 of The Italian Reckoning (A New York Criminal Empire #3)

SARAH

H is back is solid and warm against my cheek. Each time I tighten my arms, his abdomen flexes under my palm and what feels like infinite muscles ripple with every breath he takes. He smells like wood and musk dripped in oil, surely from all the time he spends working on this gorgeous bike.

Does he do that topless?

I can just picture him standing over his bike with sweat rolling down his gorgeous, perfect abs, grease streaking his cheek and his chest heaving from doing some heavy lifting related to that motorcycle.

Those thick, firm muscles I felt at his bicep flex as he drags one hand through his hair and then throws one glorious, muscular leg over the bike to turn the throttle and test that everything is in working order.

That’s how a man like that checks out his bike, and I know he’d be just as attentive in other aspects of his life.

He shifts against me, straightening up and protecting me from the next strong gust of wind that whips past us while we race to places unknown.

I don’t care where. He could take me wherever he wants to and I’d go willingly just so I can feel him against me for a moment more.

Soon, the bike comes to a stop and my handsome, mysterious biker turns in his seat and pulls me into his muscular, strong arms. My heart races, my skin flushes hot with need, and I lift my hand to cup his helmet.

It’s only me that I see in the reflection of the visor, but his hands grip my waist and he pulls me close against his broad torso.

Studying my reflection, I trace my thumb along the red piping that outlines his visor and just as I get to the latch to flip it up and reveal the face of my rescuer?—

I wake up.

A seagull caws loud enough to make the sound echo through my bedroom, and a streak of sunlight stretches across my ceiling to where my door has been pushed open by a hungry and rather impatient Iris.

She stares at me from the edge of my bed, her head tilted to the left, and as soon as we blearily make eye contact, she meows and bolts from the room in a flurry of fur and claws clattering against the floor.

“Shit,” I croak, closing my eyes and rubbing at them with my fingers.

It was just a dream. A good dream, though, because a familiar, throbbing ache lingers between my thighs and not even the need to take care of my pet can distract me.

With my mind still fogged from sleep and lingering alcohol, I roll over and burrito myself in my blankets for warmth.

Closing my eyes, I pretend that it’s my mysterious biker wrapping me up in his arms and enticing me back to sleep with kind words whispered softly in my ears.

God. He was hot .

One arm wriggles out of my protecting blanket layer and rummages in my bedside drawer until I locate my favorite toy codenamed Jerry.

He’s never steered me wrong and is the perfect man—only focused on my pleasure and he never talks back.

Jerry buzzes to life at the click of a button, and I drag it under the covers while rolling onto my stomach.

The second my toy makes contact with my clit, all the simmering pleasure from my lingering dream surges to the forefront of my mind.

I buck my hips with a loud gasp and shove my face into my pillow while my core tightens and pleasure courses through my abdomen.

Heat builds between my legs within seconds and flashes of my gorgeous biker burst through my mind.

The way he tackled that mugger was like something out of an action movie, and then the way he pinned him down and beat him was so thrilling.

I replay it over and over until it melts into the memory of him helping me up and cupping my face like we were already intimately familiar.

Just that thought makes my pulse race faster and faster.

His gentle touch to my face turns into his tender caring of my hands and the concern in his voice when he held me against his body to make sure I was okay.

Maybe I’m a little touch starved. Maybe it’s because that’s the first time someone’s held me in five years.

Maybe it’s because he rescued me.

I can’t tell, but it’s easy for my memories to weave into a fantasy where he’s caressing my face and pulling me close with love in his dark eyes. What he looks like doesn’t matter. His actions were so hot that it’s a wonder I even got off his bike in one piece.

I come to the thought of him kissing me with his bike thrumming between my thighs, matching the force and rhythm of the toy rocking against my clit, my moans muffled into my pillow.

Pleasure holds me in suspense for a good few seconds, then I suck in a deeper breath and roll onto my side as the delicious licks of desire begin to fade.

What a man .

Reality hits when I’m pouring kibble into Iris’s feeder and catching up on notifications on my phone. A deep sense of foolishness blooms in my chest, dragging my heart right down to my gut.

What the hell was I thinking accepting a ride from a stranger and giving him my address without a second thought? It doesn’t matter that he was hot or kind. Some of the most awful people in the world can act like that to get what they want.

Did I learn nothing five years ago? Out of everyone, I should have known better.

“What a mess,” I murmur, sinking my fingers into Iris’s thick fur as she purrs deeply between each mouthful of food. “I’m not drinking nameless cocktails for the rest of my life.” Paranoia leads me to look out of all my windows, but there’s no sign of the bike or the attached hot biker.

Maybe this was just a random act of kindness.

Not everything is motivated, but in this city, I can’t be sure.

Just as I’m stepping away from the window, I catch the elderly couple across the way engaged in some early morning tango.

They’re dancing inside this time, so there’s no music to drift across in the wind, and despite the slow way they move, their smiles are bright.

They’re happy.

I wonder if motorcycle guy likes to dance?

He lingers in my thoughts all the way to my local coffee shop.

It’s the only place in a five-block radius that sources their beans ethically and is thus the only place I’m comfortable spending an obnoxious amount on bean juice.

Compared to the swill that awaits me at the precinct, this stuff is like liquid gold.

“Your usual?” Bobby, the barista, flashes me a bright smile before the door has even closed behind me.

“You make me sound predictable.” I chuckle, approaching the counter. “Not a good quality in a cop.”

“If the downfall of the police department links back to a basic coffee order, then I’m not sure how much faith I have in the system.”

“Have I shattered the illusion?”

Bobbly makes a sour face. “Inexplicably.”

“My bad.”

“I’m calling the fire department next time I get into trouble.”

“The guys who always get the same donut order?”

“You’re right.” Bobby sighs dramatically. “Simplicity is the end of civilization.”

“I’m just a harbinger of bad news.”

“I should bar you.” Bobby laughs lightly as he sets to work, but he pauses and his eyes dart down to my lip. “Ouch. You okay?”

“Oh, this?” Touching my chin brings motorcycle guy to the front of my mind once more and I suppress a shudder. “Just work stuff.” There’s no point in telling Bobby the truth, especially when I’d rather forget the fact that I, a detective, got mugged and had to be saved by a civilian.

“Damn.” Bobby’s face twists with sympathy. “I forget how messed up your job can be.”

“The payment for keeping people safe.” Leaning on the counter, I study the array of pastries on display, then cast my eye around the quiet coffee shop.

I’m not usually this late to work, but Bobby remembers my order no matter what time I turn up here.

“I should head to work late more often. This place is nice when it’s quiet. ”

“It’s my favorite time.” Bobby sets a cup of coffee down in front of me. “I added an extra pump of vanilla, for the…” He motions to his face, then mine. “Least I can do.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” My smile for him grows more genuine. “What do I get if I come here after getting shot?”

Bobby’s mouth presses together as he chuckles. “I could stretch to a free pastry?”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Hey, a man’s gotta keep his business afloat somehow.”

“True, true.” I place a handful of bills on the counter to cover the coffee, then touch the glass display just as my phone vibrates to life in my pocket. “Can I get the apple strudel too?”

“Sure thing.”

“Hello?” My phone tucks into my shoulder when I tilt my head, freeing up my hand for my coffee and to dig the remainder of the payment out of my pocket.

“Detective Gogs?”

“This is she.”

“Hi. I’m calling to let you know we’ve managed to track down Belle’s ex.”

Tension tightens my chest, making my next breath shorter. “We found him?”

“Yes ma’am. They're bringing him in now.”

“Sorry, Bobby!” I snatch up my coffee and flash him a smile. “I’ve got to go!”