Renegade Riders; Forbidden Desire

Chapter2

The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow across the kitchen as I poked at the last piece of toast on my plate. Rouger leaned back in his chair, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth like he owned the damn room. He always had that air about him…like nothing rattled him, like he could waltz into a storm and walk out bone dry while the rest of us drowned.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” he remarked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

I raised an eyebrow, popping the toast into my mouth. “And you’ve always been a pain in my ass.”

Rouger chuckled, the sound deep and low, rumbling through my senses in ways I refused to acknowledge. “Guess some things never change.”

No, they didn’t; the worst part was that Rouger had been a constant in my life since I was a kid, a shadow lurking at the edges of every milestone. He was Dad’s best friend, the brother Dad never had, the one guy I’d been told a hundred times was off-limits. And yet here I was, sitting across from him at the table, trying not to think about the way the tattoos on his arms curled and twisted when he shifted in his chair.

As I finished my breakfast, I pushed back from the table, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach every time his eyes lingered on me. “Thanks for breakfast. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

“Work, huh?” he drawled, following me into the living room. His presence filled the space, intoxicating and impossible to escape.

“Yes, work,” I snapped, opening my laptop and settling onto the couch. “Some of us actually have responsibilities.”

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing beneath the tattoos that covered his skin. “And what exactly are you writing these days, Mel? More of those dirty little stories you don’t want your daddy finding out about?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I glared at him. “That’s none of your business.”

But his grin only widened. “Come on, darlin’. Don’t be shy. You’ve always had a wild imagination.”

Wild imagination? Try overactive libido. And he was half the reason for it. How many nights had I fallen asleep imagining him in my bed instead of at the bar with Dad, drinking whiskey and telling biker stories? Too damn many.

I tried to focus on the screen, on the blinking cursor waiting for words to appear, but all I could think about was the way his eyes raked over me, stripping me bare without so much as a touch. My fingers hovered uselessly above the keys, my mind spinning with images I had no business entertaining. His rough hands pinning me down. His voice in my ear, low and commanding. His beard scraping my inner thighs…

“Jesus, Mel.”

The low growl from Rouger startled me, and looking up, I blinked, asking, “What?”

Rouger was still leaning in the doorway, but his grin had gone sharper, hungrier. “You’re blushin’. What are you writin’ over there, huh?”

“Nothing,” I muttered quickly, slamming the laptop shut with a little too much force. My cheeks burned hot enough to light the whole damn house.

He tilted his head, studying me with the kind of patience that always unnerved me. “If you ever need some inspiration, I’d be more than happy to help.” His voice dropped to that gravelly tone that made my stomach twist into knots.

My eyes narrowed. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckled, unbothered by my insult. “Maybe. But you didn’t say no.”

The man had a point, and that pissed me off even more. I opened my mouth to fire back, but the words died on my tongue as I caught the flicker of heat in his gaze. He was teasing, sure, but there was something else lurking beneath the surface, something darker, hungrier.

I tore my eyes away, refusing to drown in whatever current he was pulling me into. “Aren’t you supposed to be working? You know, remodeling? Or are you just here to harass me all day?”

That finally got him moving. Rouger pushed off the doorway and strolled into the room with that easy biker swagger that screamed danger. He picked up his tool belt, slinging it around his hips, the leather riding low. My mouth went dry at the sight.

“Fine, darlin’,” he said, smirk still firmly in place. “But don’t say I didn’t offer.”

~~

The next few hours stretched into a strange rhythm. I sat with my laptop on the couch, trying to string words together, while Rouger tore into the walls like they’d personally offended him. The sound of his hammer echoed through the house, punctuating the silence between us. Dust drifted through the air, catching the sunlight in lazy beams, and the smell of sawdust mingled with the sharp tang of sweat.

But concentration was impossible. Every thud of his hammer was a reminder of the strength in his arms. Every grunt as he shifted something heavy sent my imagination spiraling. And when he peeled off his shirt, tossing it aside without a second thought, my writing went straight to hell.

“Damn, Melly, you’re typin’ like a woman possessed,” he teased from across the room, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. My fingers tapped nonsense across the keys. “Focus on the damn wall, Roug.”

“Can’t help it. You make too much noise with that keyboard. Sounds like you’re fightin’ a battle.”

“I am,” I muttered under my breath. Against myself. Against him. Against the traitorous way my body reacted every time he walked past me, close enough for me to smell the mix of sweat, leather, and motor oil that clung to him like a second skin.

At one point, he bent to pick up a board, and his jeans slid lower on his hips, revealing the V-cut of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband. My breath caught, fingers freezing above the keyboard. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“See somethin’ you like, darlin’?” he drawled.

I snapped my laptop shut again, glaring at him. “You wish.”

Rouger just grinned, slow and dangerous, like a wolf circling prey. “Mmhmm. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I was a trembling mess of frustration and desire. The room looked better, cleaner, pieces of the remodel starting to come together. But I felt like a raw nerve, every second of the day spent in a tug-of-war between wanting to kill him and wanting to climb him like a tree.

Rouger straightened, wiping sweat from his brow, his shirt back in place, but clinging to every sculpted line of muscle. “Not bad for a day’s work,” he said, surveying the progress we’d made.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to nod. “Yeah. Not bad.”

He packed up his tools slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world, like he knew I was watching. My eyes kept betraying me, tracing the curve of his shoulders, the ink across his skin.

When he finally headed for the door, the weight in my chest grew unbearable. Watching him walk away felt like torture, like losing something I’d never even had.

And when the sound of his bike roared to life moments later, vibrating through the floorboards and rattling my bones, I knew one thing for certain: this man was going to be the death of me.