Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
SAVANNAH
It’s been two days since I’ve seen Lucky, and it’s ridiculous how much that fact crawls under my skin.
I tell myself I’m being dramatic while I stand at my kitchen counter pretending to care about the mail spread out in front of me.
Bills. Grocery coupons. A flyer I’m never going to read.
My phone sits face up beside the pile, and my eyes keep drifting to it like it might light up if I stare hard enough.
He’s been calling and texting me nonstop.
Good morning messages that hit before my alarm.
Quick check ins during the day. A couple late night calls where his voice drops low and warm in my ear and makes my stomach do stupid things.
He’s been busy with club work, running jobs for the Iron Reapers, and every time he apologizes for not being able to come over I tell him it’s fine.
And it is. Mostly. But the house feels quieter without him in it.
I keep catching myself looking at the front door like I expect to hear his knock.
The new steel door. My door. The one he and Riot installed.
Every time I lock it with my fingerprint I think about the way he stood so close behind me, guiding my hand.
My phone buzzes. My heart jumps straight into my throat. I snatch it off the counter so fast I almost drop it.
Biker Boy: You home?
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.
Me: Yeah. Just got in from work.
The three little dots pop up almost immediately.
Biker Boy: Good. I’m finally free tonight.
Biker Boy: Wanna see you.
My pulse kicks up. I bite my lip, trying and failing to play it cool even though he can’t see me.
Me: Yeah. I’d like that.
There’s a pause just long enough to make me stare at the screen.
Biker Boy: Miss you, firecracker.
The words hit me right in the chest. It’s been two days. Two. And somehow that tiny sentence makes the distance feel heavier and lighter at the same time.
I sink back against the counter, phone clutched in my hand, and let myself smile like an idiot.
Me: You just saw me.
Biker Boy: Feels like longer.
Biker Boy: I’ll be there in a bit.
My stomach flips. The quiet house suddenly feels charged, like the air before a storm. I glance around at the dishes in the sink and the throw blanket tossed over the couch and the general evidence of me living here like a normal human being.
And all I can think is that he’s coming over. Tonight.
I stare at my phone for another half second and then I’m moving.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself.
I dart into my bedroom and skid to a stop at the sight of my bed.
The covers are a tangled mess because I definitely did not make it this morning.
Heat creeps up my neck as I imagine Lucky seeing it like that.
I yank the sheets straight, fluff the pillows, and smooth everything down until it looks like a normal, functional adult sleeps here and not a chaos goblin.
Then I’m flying through the house. I scoop up the stray mug on the coffee table, fold the throw blanket, and straighten the stack of mail on the counter.
Every little thing that’s even slightly out of place gets fixed.
My heart is thudding the whole time, a nervous, excited rhythm that matches the countdown in my head. He’s coming over.
When I can’t find anything else to fix, I hurry back to the bathroom and twist the shower on.
Steam starts to fill the space, warm and thick.
I peel my work clothes off, tossing them into the hamper without even looking.
My reflection in the mirror looks a little wild eyed and flushed, and I laugh under my breath.
I step under the spray and let it wash the day off me, taking my time to shave and scrub and make sure I’m smooth and fresh everywhere.
I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight.
But I want to be ready for anything. My cheeks heat as flashes of his texts and those late night calls slide through my mind.
The way his voice drops when he’s tired and honest. The things he’s whispered that have been living rent free in my head for two straight days.
My stomach tightens in a way that has nothing to do with nerves.
By the time I step out and wrap a towel around myself, my pulse is still racing. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the distant sound of a car passing outside. Any minute now, he’s going to knock on my door.
I stand in front of my closet in a towel, water still damp on my skin, and stare at my clothes like they’re supposed to have the answers.
Comfortable. But sexy. Not trying too hard. But also not pretending I didn’t just shave everything and scrub myself like I’m preparing for a life changing event.
I reach for my favorite soft black leggings and step into them, the fabric hugging my hips and thighs in a way that makes me feel grounded and a little bold.
Then I pull on an oversized off the shoulder sweater in a deep, warm gray.
It slides down one side, baring my collarbone and just enough skin to feel intentional without screaming it.
I twist in the mirror and consider. It’s casual.
Cozy. But the way the sweater drapes and the leggings cling makes heat bloom low in my stomach.
I run a brush through my hair and leave it down, soft and a little wavy from the shower. A touch of lotion on my wrists and neck, something light and clean that makes me feel fresh.
When I look at myself again, I don’t see someone trying too hard. I see someone who looks like she’s ready to curl up on the couch… or be kissed breathless in her kitchen.
My pulse jumps at the thought, and I press my lips together to hide a smile. Okay. I think I’m ready.
A knock sounds at the door and my heart jumps straight into my throat. He’s here.
I practically trip over my own feet getting to it, and I have to force myself to slow down at the last second.
I stop with my hand on the handle and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the wild flutter in my chest. My palm is warm against the steel, and the memory of him installing it flickers through my mind. Then I open the door.
Lucky’s standing there looking unfairly good. Faded jeans hug his hips, and a black T shirt stretches across his chest under his leather cut. His biker boots are planted solid on my porch, and he’s holding a pizza box in one hand and a six pack in the other like he owns the space already.
My gaze drags up his body before I can stop it. His eyes are on me, dark and intent, and there’s a slow smile pulling at his mouth that makes heat curl low in my stomach. He looks hungry. And not for food. “Hey, firecracker,” he says, his voice rough and warm all at once.
“Hey,” I manage, and it comes out softer than I expect.
The air between us feels thick, charged with every text and late night call from the past two days. My fingers tighten on the door, and I step back to let him in, my pulse beating loud in my ears.
“Come in,” I tell him, stepping back and opening the door wider.
He ducks inside, filling the entryway with heat and leather and that clean, sharp scent that’s just him.
He heads straight for the kitchen like he’s been here a hundred times before.
The pizza box slides onto the stove with a soft thud, and he opens my fridge to tuck the beer inside like it belongs there.
“How was your day?” I ask, leaning against the counter and trying to sound normal.
The air shifts as he shuts the fridge and turns around.
His gaze locks on me, and my breath stutters.
His irises are blown wide, so dark they’re almost black, and there’s a focus in them that sends a slow, electric shiver down my spine.
He starts toward me, unhurried and deliberate, and every step feels like it closes the space in my lungs.
I don’t move. I can’t. He looks like a predator stalking prey, and the terrifying part is that I don’t want to run. My pulse pounds in my ears as he crowds into my space, one hand coming up to brace on the counter beside my hip. The heat of him seeps into me before he even touches me.
“My day,” he says quietly, voice rough, “just got a hell of a lot better.” His eyes drag over me like he’s cataloging every inch. The sweater slipping off my shoulder. The leggings hugging my legs. The way I’m pressed back against the counter with nowhere to go.
Heat floods my face and settles low in my belly.
“You been thinking about me, Firecracker?” he asks. It’s barely above a whisper, but it lands heavy between us.
I swallow, my fingers curling against the counter. “Maybe,” I breathe.
A slow smile curves his mouth, and satisfaction flashes in his eyes.
He leans in just enough that his breath brushes my lips, and the world narrows to the space between us, tight and humming with everything we haven’t done yet.
His mouth hovers so close I can almost taste the mint and smoke on his breath.
My lips part on instinct, waiting, wanting.
“Maybe?” he repeats, low and teasing, the word vibrating against my skin. One corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s all I get after two days?”
I tilt my chin up, defiant even as my thighs press together under the soft cling of my leggings. “You’ve been busy. I didn’t want to seem… desperate.”
His laugh is dark, quiet, more rumble than sound.
The hand not braced on the counter slides to my waist, fingers splaying wide over the generous curve there, pressing into the plush softness like he’s memorizing the feel of me.
He doesn’t pull, he just holds, thumb stroking once, slow, deliberate, right over the dip above my hipbone before sliding lower to grip a handful of my ass.