Biker Billionaire Boxed Set

by Jasinda Wilder

  He grabbed my wrists and pulled them tight around his waist. He was hard as a mountain and twice as big. His abs were like ribbed concrete under my hands. I let my fingers splay and my palms press against him, enjoying far too much the feel of his muscles.

  "Well," he said, grinning at me over his shoulder, "I just might do god knows what, but only if you want me to."

  The bike started with a throaty roar, cutting off any response I might have given. He backed the bike up and twisted the accelerator so we jumped forward, the engine roaring and the tires skidding on the wet road. The rumble was deafening, vibrating up my legs and to my gut. It made certain portions of my feminine anatomy tingle in a way that was somewhere between uncomfortable and delightful.

  We passed through the intersection where I'd jumped out of John's car, but we hadn't gotten another mile when we passed John's Golf coming back toward us. Apparently he'd thought better of leaving me there. Too liitle, too late for him.

  He saw me on the bike and actually jerked the car into a highly impractical and illegal U-turn. He pulled up next to the bike and pointed a finger at the side of the road, indicating he wanted us to pull over. My new biker friend turned to look askance at me. I nodded and he pulled into a McDonald's parking lot.

  John squealed to a stop and I found myself amused that he was driving like a maniac all of a sudden, now that I was with another man. Again, the thought that ran through my mind was too little, too late.

  "What are you doing, Leo?" John asked, slightly hysterical, for John.

  He was standing beside me, reaching for my arm. I pulled away and he dropped his arm to his side.

  "Getting a ride," I answered, using the same calm tone he always used on me.

  "Getting a ride? Getting a ride where? And with him?"

  My friend—whose name I didn't know, I realized—rumbled in his chest like a bear. "Watch it, punk," he growled.

  John paled and backed up against his car. "What are you doing, Leo? What's going on?"

  I sighed and wiped rain off my face. Biker-man just sat impassively, listening and not responding.

  "John, I told you. We're done. There's nothing you can say or do, not anymore."

  John's eyes wavered and he stepped toward me again, grabbed my arm and tried to pull me off the bike. "We can fix this, honey! Come on, get off this bike and let's go home."

  I jerked my arm free, and John grabbed it again, pulling me off balance. Biker growled again and swung his fist, connecting with John's chin. It was a lazy, slow, almost casual punch, but it sent John flying to tumble onto his ass.

  "Get your hands off the girl," Biker said. "She's not going with you. You had your chance and you clearly fucked that up. If I see you bothering her again, I'll wreck you."

  John nodded his head numbly, fearful. Biker squealed his tire, spinning the back of the bike around in an arc, splattering John with mud. We pulled out into traffic and Biker guided the bike with a care and a precision that surprised me. He had done the thing with the tire to scare John, but he was in fact a very careful driver, if only because I was on the bike and it was raining.

  I hadn't told him where to go, but he was riding as if he had a destination in mind. I clutched his belly and let him ride, content to be taken somewhere. It might have been foolish, but for once I was making decisions that weren't responsible or careful.

  He took us to a condominium building in downtown Royal Oak, parked in the underground garage. He took my hand as I swung my leg over, and then caught me when I stumbled. My feet hurt suddenly and my legs were jelly from the vibration of the Harley's engine. He pulled me up and I found myself leaning against his chest and looking up at his gray-green eyes.

  I shivered, whether from being cold and wet or from the heat of his gaze, I wasn't sure.

  "God, I'm so sorry," Biker said, ripping his coat off and draping it over my shoulder. "You must be freezing! I should have given you my coat when you got on."

  He seemed truly chagrined, and I felt a little safer yet. His jacket draped down to my thighs, and it was warm from his body. I huddled into it, grateful, and somewhat turned on by the smell of it around me: man sweat, wet leather, cologne.

  Biker took my hand and tugged me toward the elevator. "Come on, let's get you dry."

  I pulled back and he stopped. "Wait a second. Where are we?"

  "My condo. I figured since that little punk was saying he wanted to take you home that you lived with him, and that you wouldn't want to go back there just yet."

  "That little punk is my fiance," I said. I wasn't at all sure what my point was, or why I was saying it.

  His mouth quirked up again, and his eyebrow lifted, an arch expression of wry contempt. "Not anymore," he said.

  I shrugged. "That's true. And he is a little punk."

  I stepped toward Biker, and he turned into me, looking down at me with an expression that I once again couldn't read.

  "I'll take you somewhere else, if you're not comfortable here," he offered, then ruined the moment with a sly smile. "I mean, if you're afraid, that is."

  I stepped even closer, and now I was nearly pressed against him. My heart was pounding at my own bravado. I'd seen how strong he was; he'd knocked John flying, and John wasn't a small guy either. He just wasn't anything like this leather-clad warrior in front of me.

  "I'm not afraid. I just don't go home with men when I don't know their name."

  "When do you go home with men?"

  "With men like you? Never."

  His eyes narrowed. "Men like me?"

  "Yeah, men like you. In fact, I've never gone home with a man." I inched even closer, and now my head was level with his shoulders, my eyes tipped up to look at him through my lashes. "But then, I dumped John because I needed a change. So, here we are."

  "Men like me," He said again. He was really hung up on this "men like him" thing.

  "Oh relax," I said. "I was teasing."

  "Sure you were," he rumbled.

  He pulled me into a walk again, leading me toward the elevator. I let him get me in front of the silver doors before I pulled my hand free.

  "You haven't told me your name," I said.

  "Shane Sorrenson." He was looking down at me again, and his eyes were boring holes in mine.

  "Well, Shane, we can go in now. Thank you." I turned to the elevator and waited.

  He hadn't pushed the button yet, which I knew. He grunted in something like amusement mixed with frustration, and punched the call button with his thumb.

  "You haven't told me your name," he said.

  "Leona Larkin."

  "Leo," Shane said.

  "Yep. Leo. I haven't gone by Leona since I was five. I always thought it sounded like a grandma's name."

  Shane chuckled. "Yeah, it kind of does. Leo." He looked down at me as the elevator opened. "Like a lioness. Are you a lioness, Leo?"

  Now that was an unmistakable flirt, if I ever heard one. I still wasn't quite sure why a man like this would flirt with me, soaking wet, on a diet, plain-Jane me with my frizz-bomb hair.

  I summoned my courage and flirted back. "You never know. I just might be. Better watch out, Shane Sorrenson."

  We stepped onto the elevator and the doors closed, leaving us alone in the ascending car. Shane turned to me, growling like a predator. He grabbed my arms in his thick, callused hands, pushed me against the back of the elevator and pressed his hard body against me. He had an erection through his jeans, and it was a hard bulge against my belly. I gasped, suddenly trapped between the man and the elevator wall.

  He kissed me. I expected it when his eyes went hooded and he moved towards me like a predator slinking through the grass. I wasn't expecting it to be soft, sensual, and slow. He claimed my mouth with his, not hesitant but giving me a chance to push him away. His lips were moving on mine, and his tongue was searching for mine, and I couldn't have stopped kissing him for anything.

  My knees buckled and I was suddenly wet between my legs, a dampness that had nothi
ng to do with the rain or my sopping dress. He sensed the trembling in my knees and scooped me up in his arms, holding me easily, not breaking the kiss for even a moment.

  "Put me down," I whispered into his mouth. "I'm too heavy. You'll hurt your back."

  He just snorted, an amused breath of air from his nose, smiling against my lips. He didn't answer, just carried me out of the elevator and down a long hallway toward a door at the end. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on, giggling. I'd never in my life been carried like this. I kissed his jaw, suddenly daring, and then his throat where his T-shirt touched his neck, and then his chin. He dipped his mouth down to cover mine and I was lost in his arms and his heat and his kiss.

  He set me down, dug in the pocket of his jacket for a set of keys. He opened the door, kicked it open and picked me up again, nudging it closed with his heel. He carried me into the condo, and I caught glimpses of expansive white walls with tasteful paintings, a leather couch and loveseat, a huge TV on the wall above a fireplace, and then I was being laid down on a feathersoft bed, his weight on me, his lips on mine, on my throat and down between my breasts.

  I had a moment of shock at my own behavior, but then I pushed it away. I liked this man. I liked kissing him. I liked the fact that he was dangerous and a complete stranger. I'd never slept with anyone but John, and I'd certainly never done anything like this. I felt wanton and sensual and reckless and I loved it.

  I wrapped my arms and legs around him and kissed him with all I had, and I felt his erection bulging against his jeans and into my belly. I felt a crazy impulse to unzip his jeans and touch him.

  I hesitated, still kissing him, and then moved my hand between us. He lifted up to give me access.

  And then I sneezed. Of course, I never sneeze just once; it's always at least three. This time, it was four, convulsion after convulsion, and I barely managed to turn my head aside so I didn't sneeze in his face. And then I started coughing and shivering. I wanted him, though, I wanted to carry through with my licentious compulsion to touch his penis.

  Shane cursed fluently and got off me. "God, I'm such a dick," he said, "You've probably got pneumonia and here I am groping you."

  He scooped me up again, lifting me up with effortless grace and taking me to the en suite bathroom. Compared to the one in my condo, this was a palace, all shiny marble and stainless steel. He set me on the bathtub and started the shower.

  I watched him, hungry for him. He was in a soaked T-shirt, plain black fabric stretched across a torso that was totally, ridiculously, absurdly muscular. His jeans were tight around his ass, and he was still erect against his zipper. I told myself I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be doing this with a man I knew nothing about.

  But why not? Why shouldn't I do this? There was nothing holding me back, was there? A little niggling thought hit me, reminding me of my late monthly visitor, but I pushed it away, telling myself it was just stress making me late.

  I stood up and unzipped my dress, waiting for him to turn around from adjusting the water temperature. He saw me standing, the dress hanging off my shoulders, and his eyes widened. I pulled one arm out of the strap, and then the other, and the filmy green dress fell to the floor, leaving me standing cold and clad in only matching red lace bra and panties and a serious case of goosebumps. My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he'd hear it.

  I'd worn the matching set in hopes that the date with John would lead to hot sex, and now I was glad, because here was hot sex itself, six foot four and built like a Greek god.

  I met his eyes, swallowed my nerves, and reached behind me to unhook the bra, one eyelet at a time. I slipped it off my shoulders and held it out to him by a finger. He took it in a clenched fist, not moving toward me. He'd gotten harder and bigger yet, and I licked my lips, wanting nothing more than to unzip him and see if he matched the vision in my head. I pushed the strings of my thong down around my hips, wiggling out of the panties. I bent down, picked them up, and handed them to Shane, who took them with a trembling hand.

  The tremble in his hand made me melt, just a little bit more.

  And then of course, I sneezed again, six times.

  His gaze roved over my body, and then touched on my scraped and still-bleeding knees and palms. "You're bleeding," he said.

  He moved to the narrow medicine cabinet and pulled out cotton rounds and peroxide.

  "Sit," he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  I sat, naked, on the toilet, the porcelain cold against my bare bottom. He poured peroxide on the cotton and held it near my knees, crouching down. His face was level with my breasts, and my nipples stood up hard under his gaze. I forced my knees apart and his eyes followed the motion to my crotch, trimmed close but not shaved.

  "This will sting a bit," he said. Something in his voice and his focused gaze and the practiced way he dabbed at my knee told me had some kind of medical training.

  I hissed at the sting, but didn't flinch. He dabbed the cuts clean and moved to my other knee, gentle and thorough. He took my hands in his and cleaned those as well.

  "You've done this before," I said.

  "Done what?" he asked, without looking up at me.

  "Clean wounds," I said. "You have some kind of medical training."

  He nodded. "Six years as a Marine combat medic. Most of my tours were in Iraq and Afghanistan."

  "You saw combat?"

  He nodded, and the tension in his shoulders told me not push the subject any further. "Yeah. A fuckload—" he cut himself off, "sorry, yeah. I've seen combat."

  "John always told me I swear too fucking much," I said, more to break the tension than anything.

  Shane laughed and met my gaze with humor and gratitude in his eyes. "He would say that, from what I could tell."

  It was my turn to show tension, and I know he saw it.

  "Sorry again. None of my business," he said, standing up and discarding the bloody cotton rounds. "Get in and warm up. I'll put your clothes in the dryer."

  He turned to leave and I caught his arm. "Thanks," I said.

  He nodded and left the bathroom, but not without a long last glance at my naked body.

  I showered, luxuriating in the heat. It was clearly a bachelor pad, as he had one bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, one bottle of body wash and a black poofy scrub hanging from the handle. I used what he had, debating on the hygenic-ness of using a man's poofy scrub, but in the end desire to be clean won.

  A thick black towel hung on the wall, clean and dry, and I used it, winding it around my chest. He only had a comb, which wouldn't work in my crazy curls, so I left it.

  I found him in the kitchen, making coffee, in a clean pair of blue jeans and a sleeveless, faded Led Zepplin T-shirt. He heard me come in and looked up, his hand freezing as he stirred his coffee, staring at me.

  His gaze was intense, devouring. I decided to play coy.

  "What?" I asked, the picture of innocent demurral.

  "You. Just...you."

  "What about me?" I stepped around the counter toward him.

  He backed away, setting down the coffee. I followed him until he was backed up against the counter.

  "You're sexy," he said, his voice husky, his eyes raking over my towel-wrapped cleavage and my tangled hair. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

  I looked down at his crotch, where his bulge had made its appearance once more. I ran my fingernail up his thigh and to his erection, tracing along the zipper, keeping my eyes locked on his.

  "I think I may have an idea," I said.

  He shook his head. "No, you really don't."

  I unbuttoned his jeans, kissing his jaw. "Well then show me," I whispered.

  I unzipped his jeans, but he caught my hand. "Leo, we just met. This is...it's crazy. I know I kissed you first, but I couldn't help it. You just looked so upset and wet and goddamned sexy..."

  "It is crazy," I said. "But I want it. I want it because it's crazy. You're like no one I've ever met, and my life
has just been one smart, responsible decision after another. You make me crazy and impulsive, and I like it."

  His voice was husky, and his fingers were loosening their restraining grip on my hand. "Look, I know I seem like this hard-assed biker, but I'm not a one-night stand kind of guy."

  Something twinged inside me. It wasn't guilt, but like it. What did I want, long term? I hadn't thought that far. All I knew was the burning in my belly, the dampness between my thighs, and my hand straining to touch his manhood.

  "So? It doesn't have to be a one-night stand, then." I switched tactics and moved my hand away from his groin, and he let go.

  I slipped my hand up beneath his shirt to run my palm over his washboard abs.

  "Leo, I—god, you're driving me crazy." He tilted his head back and his eyes fluttered in pleasure at I ran both hands over his torso, exploring his muscles and hot skin. "You're pushing me to the edge. I'm not gonna be able to stop myself in a second."

  "Good," I whispered, my lips against the pulsing in his throat.

  I ran my hands down his torso, angling for his erection once more. I really wanted to see his cock, suddenly, see him spring free from his pants so I could touch him, put him in my mouth and my pussy.

  I thought about saying that to him, but I wasn't quite that impulsive, yet.

  He grabbed my hand and gently but firmly pushed me away from him. "Goddamn it. I'm trying to be honorable here. When I picked you up, I was being...nice. Chivalrous, if you will. I didn't intend for this. I mean, god, yes, I want you. You're so fucking sexy I can't stand it, but I didn't think you'd—"

  "Shane, listen. I have never, ever done anything like this in my life. I've only ever been with John, and with him, it's...always the same. Good enough, and I get off sometimes, but it's boring." I dropped my hands to my sides and tried to run my fingers through my hair to untangle it, an impossible task with it un-brushed and wet. "I want more. John...he's nice, and calm, and stable and predictable and fucking boring. He hates it when I swear, which is often since I grew up with three older brothers, and he can only make love in the dark, in the missionary position. He works in a bank and wears khakis and a button down even on Saturdays. He never drinks more than three beers and he hates going down on me, and doesn't like it when I go down on him. He's the one guy in the whole world who doesn't like getting head."