She hesitates, gnawing on her lower lip in a way that makes me want to replace her teeth with mine. Her eyes dart to my bike across the street, then back to my face. "I should go. My grandmother will worry."
“I’ll take you home.” I nod toward my Harley parked across the street. "Faster than walking."
Fear and longing wage war on her face. "I've never been on a motorcycle before."
"There's a first time for everything, preciosa." I hold out my hand to her, an offering, a choice.
After what seems like an eternity, she places her small hand in mine. Her fingers are delicate but calloused from hard work—not soft princess hands, but the hands of a survivor. Her pupils dilate at the contact, and goddamn…
Before I can stop myself—before I can remember all the reasons I should take this slow—I'm pulling her into my arms. One hand cups her face, fingers threading through the wisps of hair that have escaped her braid. The other slides around her waist, drawing her against me until I can feel every curve of her body pressing into mine.
And then I'm capturing her mouth with mine.
She gasps against my lips, her body stiffening for a heartbeat before melting into me. The kiss is everything I imagined and more—soft at first, testing, then deeper as she responds with a hunger that matches my own. She tastes like cinnamon and danger, her mouth sweet and hot under mine.
My pulse thunders in my ears as blood rushes south, my cock hardening against her belly. My hand slides down to the small of her back, pressing her closer, wanting to eliminate any space between us. I've kissed hundreds of women, fucked even more, but nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this. Like I'm drowning and being saved at the same time.
The little dog sandwiched between us barks, breaking the spell. Luna jerks back, her eyes wide, lips swollen from my kiss. She presses her fingers to her mouth, as if she can't believe what just happened. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, matching my own ragged breathing.
"I shouldn't have done that," I murmur, though I'm not sorry. Not sorry at all.
"No," she agrees, but there's no conviction in her voice.
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb grazing her cheek. Her skin is like silk, warm and alive under my touch. One kiss, and I'm already addicted.
“You're dangerous, Luna Martinez,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intended. “A dangerous addiction.”
She laughs at that, the sound like music. "Me? Dangerous? You're the one with the knife and the tattoos and the motorcycle gang.”
"Club," I correct automatically. And yes, she’s more dangerous than any weapon I've ever handled.
Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie, the game, the angle. She won't find any. This thing happening between us—this instantaneous, all-consuming need to possess and protect—is as real as anything I've ever felt.
"I have to get Paco home," she says finally. "My abuela is waiting."
“Come on." I gesture to her dog, then to the saddle bags on my bike. "He'll be safe in there, and you'll be safe with me."
She hesitates again, weighing her options, weighing her trust. I can almost see the thoughts racing behind those expressive eyes— calculating the risk a man like me poses.
"I won't hurt you, Luna," I promise, my voice solemn. "Not ever."
Something in my tone must convince her, because she nods and lets me help her settle the dog comfortably in my saddle bag, making sure he has enough air and is secure. I can feel her watching me, studying my every move. My reputation in the club is for brutality, for getting the job done no matter how messy. Yet here I am, gently tucking a five-pound Chihuahua into my saddlebag as if he's made of glass.
"Your first time on a bike.” I’m assuming, but it’s more a statement than a question.
She climbs on behind me with endearing awkwardness. Her hands hover uncertainly at my waist as she rattles off her address.
"Hold tight, preciosa," I instruct, starting the engine. The Harley roars to life beneath us, vibrating with power. "Don't be shy."
When her arms circle my waist, her small body pressed against my back, I have to bite back a groan. She feels right there—like she was made to ride with me. Like we were two pieces of a puzzle finally clicking together. I've never let a woman on the back of my bike before. Not once in fifteen years with the Reapers.
In our world, letting a woman ride on the back of your bike... it means something. Every brother who sees us will understand the statement. It's a declaration, a claim. This woman is mine.
"Ready?" I call over the rumble of the engine.
She squeezes my waist in response, her cheek pressed between my shoulder blades. I feel her nod, her breath warm even through my shirt.
As we pull away from the curb, her arms tighten, her thighs pressing against mine. The trust implicit in that embrace is intoxicating. The wind whips past us, carrying her scent—a heady aroma that fills my lungs and imprints itself on my memory.
