Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance (9 page)

“Nice,” he commented and I turned sharply.

“What?”

“Your hair color, it’s nice. I couldn’t see it out there. Your eyes are nice too.”

I felt myself blush, I wasn’t exactly used to getting compliments. I shrugged out of my jacket and cut and laid them out on the bed. The rose and angel wings folding in on themselves. Our club’s colors were a red rose, white angel wings sprouting from either side of it, constricted by barbed wire. A crooked halo held up by a pair of free floating devil horns over it all. The top rocker proclaimed ‘Saintly Sinners’ loud and proud and the bottom rocker ‘Denver’ after the city we claimed as home.

I swept my hands through my dirty blonde hair and away from my gunmetal blue eyes and sighed. I pulled half of it up at the top and used the hair elastic from around my wrist to do the job my bandana and jacket had done on the road, getting it and keeping it out of my face. My hair was long, closer to my waist than my mid back, and I typically trapped it with my leather coat to keep it from tangling in the wind.

“Be right back,” I murmured, “I’m going to go wash my hands.”

I pulled off my gloves and dropped them on my jacket and cut, tossing my clear safety glasses into the bowl of my helmet next, before walking into the small bathroom and flipping on the light. I scrubbed my hands with hot water and the little hotel bar of soap that was provided. Using the bathroom mirror, I watched Kyle as he painstakingly shrugged out of his leather jacket and let it fall behind him, slouching in the chair. He was already moving better, like he was in less pain, and that was encouraging.

I shut off the water, shook my hands into the basin and dried them on the fresh hand towel. Kyle was watching me curiously the next time I looked. I frowned, I couldn’t really take stock with all that blood on his face, so I grabbed the washcloth I’d wet with some hot water and brought it over to him.

“Look at me,” I ordered and returned to my position of practically straddling his denim and leather clad thighs. He looked up obediently and I sucked in a breath. He had the most startling dark blue eyes. I’d thought they were dark brown in the low light, but no, they were a deep, sapphire blue, so dark as to be almost indigo.

“You have quite the pair of eyes yourself,” I mentioned, carefully wiping the blood from his cheek. He smiled and flashed the most adorable set of dimples. I smiled back and gently pushed his dark brown hair away from the cut over his eyebrow. It was silky soft, and I admit, I combed my fingers through it a few more times than was absolutely necessary.

Kyle closed those indigo eyes and relaxed under the touch, his hands finding my waist and simply resting there, over my jeans and chaps. I felt a little thrill go down my spine and take up residence in my stomach where it burst into a fit of butterflies.

“That feels good,” he said, “I’ve always been a sucker for having my hair played with.”

I smiled and got down to business, tending his cut, wiping at it gently with the rough washcloth, he flinched and I sucked in a breath, “Sorry, has to be done, and if you think this is bad, wait until I bust out the antiseptic.”

“I can handle it,” he said and I chuckled.

“I’ll just bet you can.”

We were quiet for a time as I ripped open packaging and brought out the styptic pencil. I sighed and warned him, “This is going to sting like a son of a bitch.”

His hands tightened on my hips, steadying himself as much as me, and he said, “Thanks for the warning and for taking care of me.”

“No problem,” I said and touched the styptic to his cut. He sucked in a breath and hissed, but he got points for holding still.

“Holy fuck, that burns!”

I laughed a little. “I warned you.”

“Yes, yes you did.” He gave my hips a squeeze, his thumbs caressing over the leather and denim and I felt an answering heat between my thighs. He was definitely my kind of hot, now that he’d been cleaned up.

He smiled up at me and I peeled off a butterfly bandage, sticking it over the cut. This was going to be a two bandage job and it was going to leave one seriously attractive scar through his dark eyebrow when he was done healing. I smiled to myself and affixed the second one.

“I think that’ll do it,” I murmured, but I didn’t back away.

“What’re you smiling about?” he asked, a teasing smile of his own spreading those gorgeous lips of his.

I blushed, “I have a thing for scars, and this is going to leave a hot one.”

“Scars?” he asked, grin widening.

“Yeah, I know it’s weird, but they tell you that a person has really lived, yah know?”

I backed off his lap and he reluctantly let me go, I mean, I could feel the hesitation and it kind of tickled me pink. I wasn’t exactly the girl that got noticed when it came to the Saintly Sinner crew.

“So are you part of a club?” I asked, inspired to change the subject, “Or you some kind of R.U.B. or weekend warrior?”

“Uh no, actually, I’m none of those. I’m a full time rider, just with no affiliation.”

“Yeah?” I asked, cleaning up my mess of packaging and putting things away, “What d’ you ride?”

He leaned back and stretched a little, putting his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle, “Ah, I ride a 2012 Indian Chief Vintage, actually.” I gave a low whistle.

“Classy looking bike.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. My granddad had an original ’48 in his barn, I used to love the look of that old thing. When he died, it went to my uncle who sold it to some collector. I was fucking pissed.”

“Uh,
yeah
. I would be too. At least it went to a collector, though. Someone who you know is either gonna restore it or take care of it is better than a scrap heap.”

“I don’t disagree,” he said and turned that charming smile on me again.

“I’m going to grab a shower, you want to go first?”

“Think it’d be okay to get this wet?” he asked pointing at his head, I frowned and shook my head.

“Probably not for the first twenty-four hours.”

“Well, the doctor has spoken. See you when you get out.”

I nodded, and divested of the rest of my riding gear which, incidentally, was just chaps and boots. I set everything aside on the faux dresser with the TV on it and moved my helmet and the like on top of it, leaving my boots on the floor beside it.

I grabbed a way oversized T-shirt out of my haversack, which was my usual sleeping attire, and a fresh pair of panties, opting for the boy shorts over the bikini cut that I had packed.

“Back in a few.”

“I’ll be here,” he promised, heaving himself to his feet.

With a nod I disappeared into the bathroom, triumphant that they had one of those wall unit little hairdryers. My hair was thick and I fuckin’ hated sleeping on it wet. It turned into an unbearable disaster when I did.

When I stepped into the hot shower spray I instantly relaxed, the hot water working its magic in easing the tension from the ride back ‘home’ right out of me. I did what I always did after a long ride and luxuriated in the wonderful heat as the road dust and grime washed down the drain. My namesake took over while I showered, my mind drifting this way and that, dreaming up different scenarios that involved Kyle between my thighs in just about every conceivable way.

I daydreamed idly about what his tongue would feel like, lapping at my slit, that generous mouth of his sucking lightly on my clit. I damn near came just from my imagination. I smiled to myself and bowed my head beneath the spray, rinsing out the little hotel portion of conditioner that was never really enough for how much hair I had. I smiled to myself and it took a huge amount of restraint not to dip my fingers into my sex and finish the job my imagination started. I didn’t care whether or not it was right, I more cared about the fact he might hear me and
that
would be embarrassing; to say the least.

I got out after shutting off the tap to an inordinate amount of steam coating the glass, and condensation running down the walls despite having the bathroom fan on full blast. I shrugged, it was an old motel, and even though I hadn’t lucked out with a non-smoking room, I
had
lucked out in that the place was scrupulously clean and the linens fresh. I used one towel for my hair and one for my body, drying off briskly, listening for the man outside the door.

I slipped quickly into my boy short panties and ducked into the oversized boat neck T-shirt that hit me at mid-thigh and hung off one shoulder. It was a dark heather gray with a skeletal hand flipping the reader off. Around the hand the words ‘do no harm but take no shit’ which was essentially the Saintly Sinner’s motto.

I sighed, and looked myself over. As far as women went, I was pretty plain to look at. I was a bigger girl at five foot ten and a size sixteen, but thankfully pretty proportionate. Thick, yes; but you would never guess I weighed as much as I did, nor that I wore size sixteen clothing just by looking at me. I was pretty evenly distributed. Lucky genetics for sure, probably the
only
lucky ones. I was thirty-two, and again, you’d never guess it. I didn’t look a day out of my mid-twenties, but despite having all of that going for me, I was still in that no man’s land of being considered too fat and not pretty enough. Or maybe that was my old insecurity talking.

High school had been a bitch, and some old ghosts stuck with you, like the voices of my tormenters whispering from the past,
disgusting pig, oh my God, do you
see
her?
I closed my eyes and heaved a sigh, firing up the hair dryer, taking the time to finish defogging the glass so I could see myself better – without the douchebags’ of my youth’s filter.

Fuck them, anyhow.

I dried my hair, finger combing it as best I could having forgotten my hair brush out in the room. I could brush it just as easy dry, so I didn’t bother going out to get it.
Never mind that it probably would have made this that much faster and easier. It doesn’t have anything to do with the lean hottie chillin’ out there. Nothing at all.

Yeah, right.

I finished drying my hair and breathed out, pulling my ‘I give zero fucks’ metaphorical big girl panties up before going out there. I’d just saved his ass off the side of the road, paid for a place for him to stay tonight, cleaned him up,
doctored
him up; the least the dude could do was be grateful and stuff any judgements he might have about me. I closed my eyes, doorknob to the bathroom gripped in my hand and remembered his hands on my hips, the gentle rhythmic caressing his thumbs did, back and forth, as I’d worked on him.

I always found it hard to believe that a guy could be interested in plain ‘ol me, but by all accounts, everything he’d displayed thus far said he might be. It was food for thought as I opened up the door and left my insecurities at the threshold.

Holy God almighty…

He was in bed and the TV was on, casting flickering blue light into the golden glow of the lamplight, making shadows dance across his bare chest. His boots were neatly lined up in front of the nightstand, his jeans and tee shirt folded just as neatly on top. He had the blankets and bed sheet turned down to his hips in such a way that if he were wearing boxers, there was no telling. His dark lashes made crescents against his pale cheeks, circles like bruises beneath his eyes.

I snuck my brush out of my bag, never taking my eyes off of him, and ran it through my hair while I let my gaze roam over him. His eyes flickered open and he stretched a little, wincing at what seemed to be his ribs protesting. He sucked in a shuddering breath and turned his attention to the corner of the room I was in, freezing me in mid-motion.

“Sorry, I guess I dozed off,” he uttered, voice thick with sleep, those indigo eyes travelling from the floor, up my long stretch of leg. Yeah, okay, there was definitely some interest. Good to know it was a two-way street.

“You’ve kind of had a hell of a day, Kyle,” I scoffed, and he nodded. He blinked a few times, frowned at the TV and clicked it off. I went around to the free side of the bed and he threw back the crappy hotel blankets in invitation. I arched one eyebrow, a little sad to see he indeed wore boxers underneath and slid in beside him.

I lay on my side, arm bunched beneath the flat pillow and faced him. He winced, but managed to turn onto his side to face me. His hand reached out, freely resting on that part of my body that was just below the ribs but before the swell of my hip. A warm, intimate touch, the weight of his hand there sending champagne bubbles fizzing through my veins, causing my skin to tingle and goosebumps to raise on my flesh. He quirked those generous, kissable lips into a lopsided grin.

“Cold?”

“Nope, you?”

“A little,” he confessed and I pulled the blanket up over us with my free hand.

We were silent for a time, and I mirrored his touch, placing my hand similarly on his body. Indeed, his skin
was
cool to the touch and I could think of about a million ways I wanted to warm this stranger up.

“So, what do you do, Dreamer?” he asked softly.

“I’m an editor, freelance. I mostly edit novels for indie authors.”

“Sounds tedious,” he murmured.

“It can be, but it’s worth it; especially being a part of some of the success stories. The publishing industry can be a pain in the ass. I used to work for a publishing house and those guys can be fucking assholes about things. At least this way I can set my own hours and can take a kinder approach to deconstructing someone’s art.” I made a face, Kyle laughed.

“What about you?” I asked.

He laughed a little nervously this time but answered my question, “Real estate. Not my first choice, but I wanted a job that would provide for any family I might have one day.”

I froze and asked the dreaded question, which I pretty much should have guessed by now, no one this hot could be single; I mean
come on
…

“So, you married?”

“Mm, nope,” he shook his head.

“Girlfriend?” I ventured, and he pursed his lips, shaking his head again.

“Gay?” I asked and he smiled, a spark of devilry in his eyes, leaning forward slowly, asking permission with his eyes before his lips touched mine.