Biker’s Temptation: Claimed by the Outlaws

The Ride and Fire

POV: Jane

The Harley doesn’t just move; it detonates. One second, I’m staring down the barrel of a black sedan’s grille; the next, my stomach is lodged firmly in my throat. Wellsboro dissolves into a violent smear of gray asphalt and blurring green pines. The engine screams with a raw, mechanical fury so loud my teeth rattle in my skull.

"HOLD ON!" Dwight roars over his shoulder.

I feel the command more than I hear it. His massive back is a wall of solid, shifting muscle beneath his thermal henley and leather kutte, pressing right against my chest. He’s a furnace wrapped in gasoline and danger.

I hold on. God, do I hold on. My arms lock around his waist, my fingers digging into the rock-hard plane of his stomach. The wind rips my hoodie back, stinging my eyes with a rush of cold air, but I don't dare let go. In the little round side mirror, I catch a glimpse of the black sedan peeling out, desperate to follow. The guy with the buzz cut is already half-out the window, phone pressed to his ear, his pistol still half-hidden in the folds of his jacket. They’re too slow.

Dwight leans hard into a left turn, the heavy bike slicing a narrow path between a feed truck and the curb. My knee nearly kisses the pavement. I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut as the world tilts at a terrifying angle. I press my forehead between his shoulder blades, seeking any anchor I can find. He smells like the bite of cold morning air, stale beer, and clean soap.

"They’re going to follow us!"

"Let ’em try," he growls. "Those suits ain’t built for backroads."

He drops one heavy, tattooed hand off the handlebar, covering both of my white-knuckled fists. His palm completely swallows my hands, his skin feeling rough and scorching hot against mine.

"Breathe, Jane. I got you."

The way he says my name; like he already owns it; makes my breath catch for a totally different reason. The terror in my chest begins to fracture, making way for a sudden, terrifying spark of heat. He avoids Main Street entirely. Instead, he cuts through a narrow alley behind the hardware store, guns the engine up a steep dirt hill, and kills the bike right behind The Brakeless Roll.

The sudden silence is deafening. My ears ring in the vacuum of noise, and my thighs are vibrating so hard they feel completely numb. Before I can even process the stillness, Dwight swings off the seat. His hands are on my waist before my brain can catch up, hauling me off the bike as if I weigh absolutely nothing. My sneakers hit the gravel, and my knees immediately buckle.

"Hey…" I gasp, trying to find my footing.

"Move," he orders, his tone sharp and leaving no room for argument.

He keeps one hand locked firmly around my elbow, marching me toward the rusted steel delivery door. He punches a code into the keypad with practiced ease. The heavy metal groans as he shoves it open, herding me into the dark. It’s the backroom. I’ve never been back here before. It smells like a mix of lemon cleaner and motor oil, and it’s freezing compared to the heat still radiating off his body. He kicks the door shut behind us. The deadbolt slides home with a heavy, final click.

My heart slams against my ribs. I back up instinctively until my spine hits the cold cinderblock wall. "What the hell was that?" I snap, my voice shaking with a mix of adrenaline and fear. "You can’t just grab me out of a diner and drag me here!"

Dwight turns. The single flickering bulb overhead casts harsh, jagged shadows across his sharp jaw and the dark ink crawling up his neck. "You wanna go back and have coffee with the two GQ assholes with Glocks?" he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register.

"No," I whisper.

"Then stop complaining."

He steps closer, and the space between us evaporates. He crowds me backward until the backs of my legs hit the battered brown leather couch in the corner. "Now," he says, planting both massive hands on the cushions on either side of my hips, effectively caging me in. "You talk."

"I don’t owe you…"

"Bullshit you don’t." His eyes flash, dark and volatile. "Two clean suits roll into my town, point a camera at you, and reach for a piece when I show up? You talk. Now."

I swallow hard, my throat feeling like sandpaper. I grip the edge of the couch just to keep from falling over. "They work for my ex fiance," I finally choke out.

"Who?"

"Does that even matter… my ex-fiancé." The word tastes like ash in my mouth. “I found something I wasn’t supposed to see in a merger file. Big money. Dirty money. He told me to look the other way, and I didn’t."

Dwight doesn’t blink. His gaze is scorching, pinning me to the spot. "So he sent dogs to drag you back."

"He doesn’t want me back," I say, my voice cracking. "He wants what I know. He’ll never stop."

For a fraction of a second, his expression softens. Then it’s gone, replaced by a wave of pure, possessive fury. "Did he hurt you?" he asks. The question is quiet, but deadly.

"What?"

"Don’t play dumb, Jane." His gaze drops to my throat, then to my collarbone where my hoodie has slipped open. "You’re flinching like someone who got hit and learned to expect it."

"No," I lie, the word coming out too fast to be convincing. "He never…"

Dwight makes a low, guttural sound in his chest. He reaches up, and I freeze. His fingers are startlingly gentle for how big they are as he hooks the zipper of my hoodie.

"Dwight, don’t…"

"Let me see."

"I said I’m fine!"

"Then prove it," he growls.

He doesn’t yank it. He just tugs the heavy fabric down an inch, pulling the thin cotton of my t-shirt tight underneath. His thumb brushes the skin of my collarbone, rough and warm. My breath stutters. My whole body lights up from that single touch, and I hate how much I instinctively lean into it.

He sees it. The faint, yellowing bruise right at the edge of my shoulder the mark from the night I ran. Dwight’s jaw locks so hard I can hear his teeth grind. The muscle feathers beneath his skin. His other hand fists in the collar of my t-shirt.

"Dwight, stop…"

Rrrrip.

The sound tears through the quiet room. The thin cotton gives way, splitting down the seam and exposing my collarbone and the bruised skin completely. Cool air hits my bare flesh, raising instant goosebumps. I gasp, clutching the torn fabric as my pulse hammers in my throat.

Dwight doesn’t look at my eyes. His dark, burning gaze is fixed entirely on the bruise. He traces the edge of the torn shirt with his thumb, his touch agonizingly slow.

"Who put his hands on you, Jane?" he whispers, his voice a lethal, vibrating promise of violence. "Tell me his name. So I can bury him.”