Biker Billionaire #1: A Wild Ride (2 page)

He was wearing a leather biker jacket, sewn with punk-rock patches and HOGS chapter patches and skulls and iron crosses and all the indecipherable things bikers patch onto their jackets. His jeans were tight, black, and expensive-looking, as were his shit-kicker boots, with spikes on the toes and silver buckles and studs. His ears were pierced along the lobes, little studs and crosses and a tiny diamond in each lobe. He had rings on his fingers, thick metal things with more iron crosses and skulls and metal-band sigils. His hair was thick, black, and plastered to his forehead. His eyes, though.

Good god. They burned, and they sparkled, and they glinted, and they did things no man’s eyes should do. Not in the rain, and especially not looking at me. Me, a girl whose diet was “actually working this time.”

His hands were warm and clammy on my bare skin, and he still hadn’t let go, even though I was openly ogling him. He had tattoos on the backs of his fingers, running across each finger except the thumbs; the tattoo would have read
Semper Fi
if he put his fists together.

He was a Marine, then, or an ex-Marine. He certainly looked the part. He was well over six feet tall, broad as a brick wall, shoulders and arms that looked mammoth even through his leather jacket. He exuded danger, pure male testosterone and power, coiled strength and deadly confidence.

And all he was doing was standing there, holding me by the arms.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” His voice was deep and smooth, reminding me of Josh Turner when he crooned the low notes.
 

Shut up. I like country music, so what?

I shook my head, hair slapping against my neck. “Do I look okay?”
 

I wasn’t sobbing anymore, as he’d startled me out of my tears. I was still gasping in near hyperventilation, though. His mouth quirked and straightened.

“I guess you don’t. You look...upset. And wet.”

“Very observant of you.”
 

He was still holding my arms, as if I were in danger of falling over still. I might have been, actually. Especially if he kept those fiery eyes on me much longer. He was meeting my gaze steadily, but I could tell it took effort. My dress was pressed against my skin all over, and it was nearly translucent now that it was wet, which was a factor I hadn’t considered when I bought it. My body was clearly displayed, leaving nothing to the imagination except the color of my flesh, and this man was trying hard, and succeeding, to not look at me.

I appreciated the effort, even as I found myself liking the idea of being ogled for once.

“Well, would you like a ride somewhere?” he asked, jerking a thumb at his bike.
 

I used the opportunity of his hand releasing my arm to step back, but his other hand was still clamped down on my right arm, firm and gentle and unrelenting. I stopped pulling away and stood in front of him. I should have demanded he release me, but I didn’t.
 

Then I wondered what he’d do if I did demand.

“Let go of my arm, please,” I said.

He let go immediately, and I found myself regretting the experiment. His hand had been warm and felt good on my arm.
 

“You’re gonna get sick, ma’am,” the biker said. “Why don’t you let me take you somewhere. I’ll behave, I promise. I’ll just drop you off, and that’s it. I won’t even ask for your number.”

I hesitated. He looked dangerous, even though his eyes belied the notion that he’d hurt me. Plus, he’d let go as if burned the moment
 
I said “let go.” He’d released me before I got the word “please.”

“I’m just being nice, okay?”
 

“I probably shouldn’t. I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, and I don’t know you,” I said. They were flimsy excuses neither of us believed. “I’ll be fine, but thanks.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, exasperated. “You’re bleeding. Your wrist looks swollen, you don’t have any shoes, and it’s raining cats and dogs. Let me take you somewhere,
please
.”

“It’s not safe,” I said, my last excuse to my more cautious nature.

“What’s not, me or the bike?” He sounded offended.

I sighed, realizing he thought I was judging him by his appearance. And you know what? I was.

“Both,” I said. “But you’re right. Thank you, I would love a ride.”

“You don’t think I’m safe, do you?” His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to suddenly exude a sense of threat. I wasn’t afraid, but I got the feeling you didn’t want this man mad at you.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “You’re a biker. You have spikes on your boots and tattoos on your fingers. You might take me to a warehouse and do god knows what to me.”

I was moving toward the bike as I spoke, and he was smothering a grin.

“Well, you’re mostly right. Except I don’t know where any warehouses are.” He sat on the Harley and turned the key, but didn’t start it yet.

“What about the doing god knows what part?” I asked as I swung my leg over the bike behind him.
 

He grabbed my wrists and pulled them tight around his waist. He was hard as a mountain and twice as big. His abs were like ribbed concrete under my hands. I let my fingers splay and my palms press against him, enjoying far too much the feel of his muscles.

“Well,” he said, grinning at me over his shoulder, “I just might do god knows what, but only if you want me to.”

He started the bike with a throaty roar, cutting off any response I might have given. He backed the bike up and twisted the accelerator so we jumped forward, the engine roaring and the tires skidding on the wet road. The rumble was deafening, vibrating up my legs and to my gut. It made certain portions of my feminine anatomy tingle in a way that was somewhere between uncomfortable and delightful.

We passed through the intersection where I’d jumped out of John’s car, but we hadn’t gotten another mile when we passed John’s Golf coming back toward us. Apparently he’d thought better of leaving me there. Too late for him.
 

He saw me on the bike and actually jerked the car into a highly impractical and illegal U-turn. He pulled up next to the bike and pointed a finger at the side of the road, indicating he wanted us to pull over. My new biker friend turned to look askance at me. I nodded, and he pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot.
 

John squealed to a stop, and I found myself amused that he was driving like a maniac all of a sudden, now that I was with another man. Again, the thought that ran through my mind was
too little, too late
.

“What are you doing, Leo?” John asked, slightly hysterical, for John.

He was standing beside me, reaching for my arm. I pulled away, and he dropped his arm to his side.

“Getting a ride,” I answered, using the same calm tone he always used on me.

“Getting a ride? Getting a ride where? And with
him
?”

My friend—whose name I didn’t know, I realized—rumbled in his chest like a bear. “Watch it, punk,” he growled.

John paled and backed up against his car. “What are you doing, Leo? What’s going on?”

I sighed and wiped rain off my face. My friend just sat impassively, listening and not responding.

“John, I told you. We’re done. There’s nothing you can say or do, not anymore.”

John’s eyes wavered, and he stepped toward me again, grabbed my arm, and tried to pull me off the bike. “Why? We can fix this, honey! Come on, get off this bike and let’s go home.”

I jerked my arm free, and John grabbed it again, pulling me off balance. Biker growled again and swung his fist, connecting with John’s chin. It was a lazy, slow, almost casual punch, but it sent John flying to tumble onto his ass.
 

“Get your hands off the girl,” Biker said. “She’s not going with you. You had your chance, and you clearly fucked that up. If I see you bothering her again, I’ll wreck you.”

John nodded his head numbly, fearful. Biker squealed his tire, spinning the back of the bike around in an arc, splattering John with mud and rain. We pulled out into traffic, and Biker guided the bike with a care and a precision that surprised me. He had done the thing with the tire to scare John, but he was in fact a very careful driver, if only because I was on the bike and it was raining.
 

I hadn’t told him where to go, but he was riding as if he had a destination in mind. I clutched his belly and let him ride, content to be taken somewhere. It might have been foolish, but for once I was making decisions that weren’t responsible or careful.
 

He took us to a condominium building in downtown Royal Oak, parked in the underground garage. He took my hand as I swung my leg over, and then caught me when I stumbled. My feet hurt, suddenly, throbbing, and my legs were jelly from the vibration of the Harley’s engine. He pulled me up, and I found myself leaning against his chest and looking up at his gray-green eyes.

I shivered, whether from being cold and wet or from the heat of his gaze, I wasn’t sure.

“God, I’m so sorry,” Biker said, ripping his coat off and draping it over my shoulder. “You must be freezing! I should have given you my coat when you got on.”
 

He seemed truly chagrined, and I felt a little safer yet. His jacket draped down to my thighs, and it was warm from his body. I huddled into it, grateful, and somewhat turned on by the smell of it around me: sweat, wet leather, cologne.

Biker took my hand and tugged me toward the elevator. “Come on, let’s get you dry.”

I pulled back, and he stopped. “Wait a second. Where are we?”

“My condo. I figured if that little punk was saying he wanted to go home that you lived with him, and that you wouldn’t want to go back there just yet.”

“That little punk is my fiancé,” I said. I wasn’t at all sure what my point was, or why I was saying it.
 

His mouth quirked up again, and his eyebrow lifted, an arch expression of wry contempt. “Not anymore,” he said.

I shrugged. “That’s true. And he is a little punk.”
 

I stepped toward Biker, and he turned into me, looking down at me with an expression that I once again couldn’t read.

“I’ll take you somewhere else, if you’re not comfortable here,” he offered, then ruined the moment with a sly smile. “I mean, if you’re afraid, that is.”

I stepped even closer, and now I was nearly pressed against him. My heart was pounding at my own bravado. I’d seen how strong he was; he’d knocked John flying, and John was a tiny little nerd. He just wasn’t anything like this leather-clad warrior in front of me.
 

“I’m not afraid. I just don’t go home with men when I don’t know their name.”

“When do you go home with men?”
 

“With men like you? Never.”

His eyes narrowed. “Men like me?”

“Yeah, men like you. In fact, I’ve never gone home with a man.” I inched even closer, and now my head was level with his shoulders, my eyes tipped up to look at him through my lashes. “But then, I dumped John because I needed a change. So, here we are.”

“Men like me?” he asked again. He was really hung up on this “men like him” thing.

“Oh, relax,” I said. “I was teasing.”

“Sure you were,” he rumbled.
 

He pulled me into a walk again, leading me toward the elevator. I let him get me in front of the silver doors before I pulled my hand free.

“You haven’t told me your name,” I said.

“Shane Sorrenson.” He was looking down at me again, and his eyes were boring holes in mine.
 

“Well, Shane, we can go in now. Thank you.” I turned to the elevator and waited.
 

He hadn’t pushed the button yet, which I knew. He grunted in something like amusement mixed with frustration, and punched the call button with his thumb.

“You haven’t told me your name,” he said.

“Leona Larkin.”

“Leo,” Shane said.

“Yep. Leo. I haven’t gone by Leona since I was five. I always thought it sounded like a grandma’s name.”

Shane chuckled. “Yeah, it kind of does. Leo.” He looked down at me as the elevator opened. “Like a lioness. Are you a lioness, Leo?”

Now, that was an unmistakable flirt, if I ever heard one. I still wasn’t quite sure why a man like this would flirt with me, plain-Jane me with my now frizz-bomb hair.
 

I summoned my courage and flirted back. “You never know. I just might be. Better watch out, Shane Sorrenson.”

We stepped onto the elevator and the doors closed, leaving us alone in the ascending car. Shane turned to me, growling like the lion he was calling me. He grabbed my arms in his thick, callused hands, pushed me against the back of the elevator, and pressed his hard body against me. He had an erection through his jeans, and it was a hard bulge against my belly. I gasped, suddenly trapped between the man and the elevator wall.
 

He kissed me. I’d expected it when his eyes went hooded and he moved toward me like a predator slinking through the grass. I wasn’t expecting it to be soft, sensual, and slow. He claimed my mouth with his, not hesitant, but giving me a chance to push him away. His lips were moving on mine, and his tongue was searching for mine, and I couldn’t have stopped kissing him for anything.
 

My knees buckled, and I was suddenly wet between my legs, a dampness that had nothing to do with the rain or my sopping dress. He sensed the trembling in my knees and scooped me up in his arms, holding me easily, not breaking the kiss for even a moment.
 

“Put me down,” I whispered into his mouth. “I’m too heavy. You’ll hurt your back.”

He just snorted, an amused breath of air from his nose, smiling against my lips. He didn’t answer, just carried me out of the elevator and down a long hallway toward a door at the end. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on, giggling. I’d never in my life been carried like this. I kissed his jaw, suddenly daring, and then his neck where his T-shirt touched his neck, and then his chin. He dipped his mouth down to cover mine, and I was lost in his arms and his kiss.