Tempted by the Wild Biker

Chapter 1 — Isla

It’s my last week here.

Sunday morning I’ll drive to Millbrook. Four weeks, same pattern I’ve been running for three years now.

The heat sits on my skin like a hand, thick enough that I'm breathing through my mouth by the time I cut the engine outside The Anchor.

Tonight I came to observe. You learn more about a community watching who drinks with who on a Thursday night than sitting through formal meetings where everyone performs their best behavior.

One beer, mental notes, back to the rental.

The Anchor is brick, neon signs in the windows, motorcycles lined up out front. More bikes than trucks tonight, which I notice because three years doing this work means I read a room before I walk into it.

I've been careful in Bloomfield. Polite, professional, kept clear of anything that might get complicated.

The Vigil MC has a presence here and everyone knows, though nobody says it directly. I've met some of the women at community events and they were warm, but I didn't ask questions.

The door swings open to dark wood, low lights, a pool table in back with three men in leather cuts taking turns at a game.

Country music plays under the conversation, and everything smells like beer and smoke that's baked into the walls.

I take a stool at the bar, third from the end.

The bartender is older, maybe late sixties, with steady hands and kind eyes that assess me while he sets down a coaster.

"What can I get you?"

"IPA if you've got one on tap."

"We do." He pulls the draft and sets it in front of me. "You're Isla, right? From the nonprofit?"

I'm surprised. "Yeah."

"Walt." He nods like we've confirmed something. "Heard good things about the work you're doing at the community center. Mrs. Jones speaks highly of you."

"Mrs. Jones does the real work. I just helped her organize it."

He smiles. "Modest." Then he looks down the bar toward a man sitting alone with whiskey. "Chuck, you met Isla yet?"

The man looks up.

Tall even sitting, lean build, probably six one, with a face that's been forty-eight hard years outside. Dark hair going gray at the temples and gray in his beard too. Lines around his eyes deep enough I can see them from here.

Black tee shirt, leather cut with patches worn from weather and road. His hands around the glass are scarred across the knuckles.

Older than me by fifteen years, maybe twenty.

"No ma'am." His voice is a drawl, words stretched long. "Haven't had the pleasure."

He slides off his stool and moves down the bar without rushing, just steady purpose.

Walt handles the introduction. "Isla's been doing capacity building work with local organizations. Four weeks now. Chuck here's one of Clint's boys."

Chuck offers his hand.

I take it and his palm is warm, callused, larger than mine.

The contact sends something down my spine that I feel in my thighs.

I let go maybe too fast.

"Nice to meet you."

"Don't see why someone as pretty as you should drink alone." He says it easy, like stating weather. "You're welcome to the company if you want it."

I should say I'm fine. I came to observe, not participate.

His eyes are dark and steady on mine. Something in my body has already decided different than my brain was planning.

"Sure."

He brings his whiskey down and takes the stool next to mine, close enough I smell leather and exhaust and something woodsy underneath. Walt moves down the bar to help someone else, his expression saying he knows exactly what's happening.

Chuck takes a drink. "So… Capacity building."

"Community outreach. I help nonprofits with grant writing, volunteer management, and strategic planning. Whatever they need."

"Four-week rotations?"

"Twelve towns on a year-long cycle. Four weeks each town, then I move."

He considers that. "You like moving that much?"

"I like being useful. And I like not staying anywhere long enough for it to get complicated."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "I know that feeling."

Something in how he says it makes me curious. "Yeah?"

"Been doing intelligence work for the club twenty-five years. Go where I'm needed, track contacts, build networks, follow leads. Spent more time on the road than in Bloomfield most years."

"That’s why Walt knows you, but I haven't seen you around?"

"Been gone two weeks, got back Tuesday." He looks at me direct. "Shame I didn't get back sooner. Would've met you three weeks ago instead of three days before you leave."

The flirtation is obvious and I'm not offended. I'm twenty-eight and I know when a man is interested.

What surprises me is I'm interested back.

"When do you leave again?"

"Don't know yet. Depends what needs doing."

I drink my beer. "Sounds like neither of us stays put."

"Seems that way."

Quiet settles between us, not awkward but present.

"Can I ask what brought you to this work?" he says.

"Honestly?"

"Please."

"I spent eight years with someone who made all the decisions. Where we lived, what we ate, how we spent weekends. Nice guy, pleasant, but I disappeared so completely that when I left I had no idea what I actually wanted. So, I took a job that would force me to figure it out."

He watches me steady. "And? You figure it out?"

"Some. I know I like work that matters. I know I like people. I know I like being able to leave when I'm ready instead of when someone else decides."

"That why you do the four-week thing? Built-in exit?"

I don't know why I'm being this honest. "Probably, yeah."

He nods slowly and takes another drink. "I get that. Been telling myself twenty-five years that moving around is freedom. Lately I'm not sure if I've been free or just running."

My chest does something, tightens maybe. I look at him closer, at the weathered face and scars on his hands, at how he sits loose but his eyes track the room constantly.

"What made you start questioning?"

He turns the glass between his fingers. "Buddy of mine died eight months back.

Thirty-four, lived alone, worked for the club, and went home to an empty house.

Nobody waiting. When he didn't show for his shift, took hours before anyone noticed.

" He pauses. "Made me wonder if choosing to be alone is the same as choosing freedom, or if I've just been scared of wanting more. "

I don't have words for that level of honesty three minutes into meeting someone.

"I'm sorry about your friend."

"Yeah, me too." He looks at me. "Sorry. That got heavy."

"No. I asked.”

Walt comes back and checks our drinks. Chuck orders another whiskey while I'm still working on my beer.

The conversation shifts and he asks about the towns I've been to, which ones I liked, whether any were disasters. I ask about Bloomfield, what it's like when you're here more than four weeks.

He tells me about The Anchor's pool tournaments, the diner that does breakfast better than anywhere, the road along the river where he rides when he needs to think.

We talk for an hour, then another.

I lose track because he's easy and he makes me laugh with dry observations about people that land true without being mean. And he asks real questions, not small talk but actual curiosity about things I care about.

Somewhere in the second hour my body shifts closer without me deciding. Our knees almost touch. His hand comes close enough, and I feel the movement without contact. I'm aware of him in ways I haven't been aware of anyone in years.

He's attractive, just fact. The age gap should probably make me cautious, but it doesn't.

If anything, it's appealing. I'm done with men my age who need teaching. This one knows who he is and it shows in how he moves, how he talks, how he looks at me.

And he looks.

Not polite glances but direct attention.

His eyes drop to my mouth while I'm talking, track down to where my henley stretches across my chest, down to where my jeans fit over my thighs.

I'm big and stopped apologizing for it two years back, but being looked at like this, with obvious want and zero hesitation, still kicks my pulse up.

Around ten-fifteen, Walt announces last call.

The pool players settle and head out. The bar empties.

Chuck turns to me. "Can I walk you out?"

His voice has dropped. The question is innocent, but the tone isn't.

"Sure."

We settle tabs and Walt gives us a look that says he knows exactly what's happening and approves.

I grab my bag and we step outside.

The heat hasn't broken, worse now with asphalt radiating warmth and air thick enough to taste. Cicadas impossibly loud.

The parking lot is mostly empty. My car is under the streetlight, and his motorcycle is closer to the building.

We walk to my car and stop next to the driver's door.

Face each other.

The want is right there between us. I feel it in how close we're standing, in how his eyes drop to my mouth again, in how my breath is coming too fast.

I should say goodnight, get in my car, drive back like a sensible person.

"I should probably go."

My voice doesn't sound convinced.

"Yeah. Probably."

He doesn't move and neither do I.

He steps closer, not crowding but closing distance by six inches. Close enough now I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact.

"I should tell you something." That drawl is more pronounced, words stretched. "Been thinking about kissing you for the last hour."

My stomach drops in the best possible way.

"What took you so long?"

He grins.

Then his hand cups the back of my neck and he kisses me, not tentative or testing but claiming.

His mouth is firm and sure, and it goes deep immediately. I make a sound I didn't plan and press closer. His free hand finds my hip and grips hard through denim. The pressure pulls a gasp and he takes advantage, deepens the kiss further.

I fist both hands in his shirt and kiss him back like I've been thinking about this for hours too.

His beard is rough against my skin. His body is solid everywhere mine is soft. When his tongue touches mine the heat that's been building all night breaks through completely.

The kiss ends because we both need air.

I'm breathing hard and so is he. His hand is still on my hip, thumb pressing into softness above my jeans. My hands still fisted in his shirt.

"You're only here four more days," he says, and it's not a question.

"Leave Sunday morning."

"That's a shame."

I look at him, at the lust in his dark eyes, at how his chest rises and falls faster than two minutes ago, at his mouth which I now know tastes like whiskey and heat.

I could get in my car, drive away, keep this simple.

Or I could make a different choice.

"I've got tonight though."

He goes very still. "You saying what I think you're saying?"

"How do you feel about one night? No strings, no complications. I leave Sunday, you do your thing, clean ending."

He looks at me long and something shifts in his expression, like he's calculating, considering.

Then that slow grin returns.

"Best offer I've had in years, darlin'."

He kisses me again.

Harder this time, hungrier. His hands slide down to grip my ass and lift me slightly against him. I make another sound and he swallows it. The kiss goes until I'm dizzy, until my thighs press together and my hands shake.

When we break apart, I'm flushed, pulse racing.

"Follow me." My voice sounds rough.

"Yes ma'am."

I get in my car with hands not entirely steady. He walks to his motorcycle and swings on, kick-starts it. The engine rumbles loud in the quiet lot.

I pull out and he follows.

His headlight bright in my rearview.

The ride to my rental is ten minutes but feels longer.

I watch his headlights and think this is a good decision.

One night with a hot older man who knows what he's doing, scratch the itch, leave Sunday with good memories. Simple and clean and contained.