Renegade Riders; Forbidden Desire

Chapter 4

The sound of Rouger’s boots echoed down the hallway before I even saw him. That heavy, deliberate rhythm carried weight, like every step was measured so he didn’t shake the house. I sat curled up on the couch with my laptop open, though the words on the screen blurred into nothing. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but all I’d managed in an hour was a half-finished sentence that mocked me with its hollowness.

The problem wasn’t the blank page. The problem was him.

Rouger filled doorways the way storms filled skies—too big, too consuming to ignore. At six-foot-four, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black T-shirt, he made the space around him smaller. His dishwater-blond hair brushed just below his shoulders, half-tied back, a few strands falling into his face as he carried in a stack of lumber like it weighed nothing. Tattoos rippled with every flex of his arms, ink flowing down his forearms, curling up his neck, peeking above the collar of his shirt.

I couldn’t stop staring.

God, he doesn’t even know what he does to me.

He didn’t look at me, not really. His green eyes flicked across the room—walls, ceiling, corners—assessing what needed fixing like I was just another broken thing on the list. But even without direct eye contact, I felt him. Felt the heat of his presence, the way it pressed against me, crowding the air between us.

I shifted on the couch, crossing my legs, pretending my skin didn’t prickle every time he bent down to drop something, the hem of his shirt riding up to show the edge of another tattoo scrawled across his ribs.

“Where you want this?” His voice was gravel, low and rough, always scraping across my nerves like sandpaper.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Against the far wall. By the window.”

He nodded once, set the lumber down, then straightened, stretching his back with a roll of his shoulders. The move made the muscles in his arms bulge, veins standing out like ridges, and my eyes betrayed me, dropping to the glint of his lip ring when he licked his lower lip.

Stop it, Mel. He’s not yours. He’ll never be yours. He’s too loyal, too stubborn, too goddamn honorable.

Still, my body didn’t care about honor. My body screamed every time he walked past, every time his scent hit me: that mix of cedarwood soap and gasoline, leather and faint whiskey.

Rouger wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket, then glanced my way, only briefly, before picking up a hammer. “This wall’s gotta be reinforced before I can put shelves in. Might get noisy.”

“I don’t mind noise,” I murmured, my voice softer than I intended.

His eyes cut to me this time, sharp, unreadable. For a heartbeat, I thought he heard the weight behind my words. That other kind of noise I craved. But then he turned back to the wall, hammering nails like the conversation had ended.

Coward, I thought bitterly, though I wasn’t sure if I meant him or me.

The rhythmic sound of the hammer filled the silence, steady and unrelenting. Each strike was another reminder of the barrier he insisted on building between us. And yet, with every swing, every flex of muscle, every grunt of exertion, my pulse climbed higher, like my body was attuned to his every movement.

I closed my laptop, giving up the pretense of work, and leaned back into the couch cushions. My gaze wandered, shameless, cataloging every detail of him. The way the tattoos climbed his arms like stories inked into skin. The glint of sweat forming at his temple. The strands of blond hair brushing against his cheek when he bent forward.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. If I don’t stop, I’m going to combust. Or worse, I’m going to do something I can’t take back.

But my imagination was cruel, whispering images I couldn’t silence. His rough hands against my skin. His mouth moving down my throat, the cold shock of his lip ring dragging along my collarbone. His voice, lower, darker, when he lost control.

My thighs pressed together before I realized it, a restless movement I hoped he hadn’t noticed. But the flicker of his gaze told me otherwise. He didn’t speak on it, didn’t acknowledge it, but I saw his jaw tighten, the hammer stalling mid-swing for half a second before he resumed.

That pause was everything.

He feels it too. He’s fighting it. Why? Why won’t he just give in?

“Mel.” His voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.

My head jerked up. “What?”

“You’re staring holes through me,” he said without looking, his tone flat, almost accusing.

Heat rushed up my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He let out a low, humorless laugh, finally glancing over his shoulder. His eyes pinned me, too intense, too knowing. “Darlin’, I don’t need to flatter myself. I can feel it.”

My stomach clenched. Words caught in my throat, useless.

Then he turned back to the wall, shutting me out again, leaving me to drown in the echo of what he hadn’t said.

The rest of the afternoon stretched on like a cruel test of willpower. I tried distracting myself—scrolled through my phone, refilled my coffee cup, even paced the hallway—but every time I returned to the living room, Rouger was still there, still working, still exuding that impossible presence that made the air feel too thick.

By the time evening light slanted through the windows, painting the room in gold, my nerves were raw. He gathered his tools, wiping down the hammer, stacking leftover boards neatly in the corner.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to finish.” His words were clipped, brisk, as if lingering might tempt him into something he couldn’t undo.

I stood near the doorway, arms crossed tight against my chest. “Do you ever get tired of running from me?”

He froze, shoulders tense. For a long moment, he didn’t turn, didn’t move. Then, slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

The hunger in his eyes gutted me. Raw, feral, barely contained.

But when he spoke, his voice was iron. “Better to run now than regret later.”

And then he left. Just like that. Tools in hand, boots thudding against the floor, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence afterward was deafening.

I sank onto the couch, my chest tight, every nerve still buzzing like live wire. He wants me. I know he does. So why does he keep pulling away? Why does he make me feel like I’m the only one drowning in this while he gets to breathe just fine?

My eyes stung, but I refused to cry. Instead, I grabbed my whiskey bottle, poured a glass, and sat in the dimming light, sipping slowly, trying to replace the ache inside me with fire in my throat.

But the truth remained, heavy and inescapable. No matter how much I tried to deny it, no matter how hard he tried to hold the line—Rouger was under my skin. And I wasn’t going to stop until I broke through his walls.