Renegade Riders; Forbidden Desire

Chapter 3

The next few days blurred together, a strange dance of avoidance and temptation. Rouger worked around the house like a man possessed, tearing out old cabinets, sanding walls, fixing the creaks in the floorboards that had driven me nuts since the day I moved in. I wrote in spurts, words tumbling out of me in chaotic bursts, then drying up completely when he strolled through the room shirtless and sweating, like some cruel distraction designed to test my sanity.

The house smelled of sawdust, coffee, and the faint leather-and-whiskey musk that clung to him. Every time he passed by, I inhaled without meaning to, greedy for the scent of him. It wasn’t fair, the way he occupied every sense—his voice gravelly in my ears, his heat brushing against me when he leaned too close, his laugh vibrating down to my bones.

One night, after a long day of pounding nails and typing words I hated, I found myself leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him as he tinkered with something spread across the table. His big hands moved with precision, calloused fingers steady as they worked over screws and wood. I hated how fascinated I was by his hands. How many times had I imagined them gripping my thighs, sliding up under my dress, holding me down while he...

“Wanna taste, Melly?” His voice cut through my thoughts like a whip, sharp and amused.

I blinked, heat rushing to my cheeks. “In your dreams, old man.”

Rouger smirked without looking up, like he knew exactly what had been running through my mind. “You’d be surprised how often you show up in mine.”

My stomach lurched, my pulse skipping. I wanted to laugh it off, to tell him he was full of s**t, but the truth was painted in his eyes when he finally lifted them to mine. Hunger. Real, raw hunger. The kind that matched the storm raging inside me.

I turned quickly, grabbing a glass of water from the counter just to give myself something to do. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re avoidin’ the question.” He stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape against the floor. His boots thudded softly as he crossed the kitchen, closing the space between us.

I gripped the glass tighter, my back pressed to the counter. The air shifted, heavy with unspoken words. He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.

“What do you want from me, Rouger?” The words slipped out, breathless and sharp.

His jaw clenched, eyes flickering with something I couldn’t quite pin down. “Nothin’ I’m allowed to have.”

The way he said it sliced through me. My chest tightened, torn between fury and desperation. “Then stop lookin’ at me like that. Stop...stop makin’ me think...”

“Think what?” he pressed, his voice low, almost dangerous.

“That maybe you want me as bad as I want you,” I breathed.

The silence between us roared louder than the construction noises had all week. His breath came harsh, his body tense, every line of him pulled tight like a bow ready to snap. And then he stepped back, dragging a hand over his face.

“f**k, Mel. Don’t do this to me,” he growled.

The words stung. My throat burned as I forced a shaky laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that irresistible."

But even as the lie left my lips, my body betrayed me. My n*****s ached beneath my shirt, my thighs pressed together, desperate for friction. I hated him for making me feel like this, hated myself more for craving the one man I knew I couldn’t have.

Later that night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the house quiet except for the occasional groan of wood settling. My body hummed with restless energy, my mind circling back to every look, every touch, every almost between us.

I tried to distract myself with my writing, opening the laptop and forcing words onto the page. But the scene that spilled out wasn’t the one I’d intended. Instead of the hero I’d imagined, Rouger appeared—tattooed arms, green eyes burning, voice like gravel and sin. My fingers typed furiously, painting the picture of his hands gripping my hips, his mouth claiming mine, his body pinning me to the bed.

My breath came faster, my chest heaving as I read the words I’d written. It felt too real, too close to the edge of something I wasn’t supposed to touch. Slamming the laptop shut, I shoved it aside and buried my face in my pillow with a groan.

“This is insane,” I muttered into the darkness. “He’s Dad’s best friend. He’s off-limits. Untouchable. Forbidden.”

But my body didn’t care about forbidden; it only cared about the memory of his lips brushing mine in the hallway earlier that week, the ghost of a kiss that haunted me every time I closed my eyes.

I gave up fighting it. My hand slid beneath the covers, seeking the release that only Rouger could truly give me, though he wasn’t there. My mind conjured him anyway—his voice in my ear, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his beard scraping along the inside of my thighs. I came hard, muffling my cry against the pillow, tears stinging my eyes at the emptiness that followed. Because no matter how vivid the fantasy, it wasn’t him.

~~

The next morning, I stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and exhausted. Rouger was already there, sipping coffee like he hadn’t been the star of my midnight fantasies. His eyes flicked over me, taking in my rumpled hair, the dark circles beneath my eyes.

“Rough night, darlin’?”

I glared, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “Don’t start.”

He smirked into his cup, unbothered as always. “You know, you should learn to hide it better. Wearin’ your thoughts all over your face like that, it’s dangerous.”

I froze, coffee mug halfway to the pot. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned back against the counter, arms folded, eyes locked on mine with a weight that made it hard to breathe. “Means you’re playin’ with fire, Mel. And one of these days, you’re gonna get burned.”

My pulse raced, but I forced a steady voice. “Maybe I like the heat.”

His smirk faltered, just for a second, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Then he turned, setting his cup in the sink. “Careful what you wish for.”

And just like that, he walked out, leaving me standing there with my coffee and a heart that felt like it might explode.

That night, as the sound of his bike faded into the distance, I lay awake again, caught between fury and longing. Rouger was right, I was playing with fire. But God help me, I didn’t want to stop.