BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

  I suck in a quick breath.

  Beneath the jacket, Flint wears a chain necklace around his neck; beneath that is a white T-shirt that is plastered tightly to the contours of his back and torso. The too-thin material rucks up in places where his muscles move and ripple beneath his road-tanned skin. He yanks at the hem of the shirt to pull it down and turns, and despite feeling as if I'm half-drowned, my mouth goes suddenly dry.

  I gaze at him openly, and I can't remember the last thing that was said between us. I knew from the bar that he was fit, but this exhibition feels almost insulting. I quickly distract myself by crossing the room, trailing water behind me as I snatch his leather jacket up from the seat of the chair.

  "You need to hang this up," I mention, "if you want it to be dry by morning."

  I'm surprised when he doesn't come after me to reclaim his property. I suppose a part of me thought that bikers—because that is undoubtedly what this man is—were territorial. Don't they have turf wars with rival clubs, killing each other over this or that piece of road? I realize then that I know next to nothing about Flint, not even the fundamentals.

  But what I told him back at the bar still stands. He does look familiar, even if I can't quite put my finger on where I've seen him before.

  I stretch the jacket out by its shoulders and study the patch emblazoned on the back. I might have expected the flaming skull, but it's the crossbones that surprise me. They aren't bones at all, but crossed arrows. The letters 'R' and 'B' frame the grimacing skull on either side. I have no idea what this could mean. I glance back over my shoulder at Flint. He watches me examine his jacket, but if the question is obvious in my face, an answer isn't forthcoming.

  I move off into the bathroom to hang his jacket over the lip of the sink. Then I turn to close the door behind me. I need a shower desperately, and not just to wash away the rainwater and residual dirt from our journey on the road. After hours with Flint effectively locked within my embrace, I need to impose some space between us to figure things out.

  I whisk the shower curtain aside and wrench the tap on. I do all of this much more loudly than is strictly necessary, but I want my new roommate to know what my intentions are. There isn't a lock on the door, but I think I've made it perfectly clear that I am claiming this territory for my own, at least for now.

  I begin to peel my clothes off, wincing as the fabric adheres itself to my flesh. Goosebumps spring out across my pale skin as I undress. I can't get into the shower fast enough. Once I free my ankle from the confines of my sopping-wet jeans, I all but spring into the bathtub and thrust the curtain closed behind me in a rattle of metal rings.

  The cascade of water feels almost molten-hot by comparison, but I squeeze my eyes shut and endure it. As my body temperature rises slowly, I adjust to the heat until I find myself biting my lip to suppress a moan with how heavenly it feels. I never want to leave the shower, even though I know I should give Flint a chance eventually. It's the least he deserves after saving my ass and putting me up for the night.

  I cross my bare arms over my breasts and open my eyes to stare at the far tiled wall. I can't enjoy myself; I need to think. Even though I've managed to escape my pursuers for now, the reality remains that I've been found, and my assets have likely been apprehended as well. That will teach me to open tabs at bars.

  That will teach me to try and achieve some sense of normalcy in all this insanity. My life will never, ever be normal.

  But at least my brief flirtation with, well…flirting…wound up working in my favor. I owe this man, Flint, a lot, but he doesn't seem to be asking for anything in return. I'm not sure if his lack of motive should make me feel relieved, nervous, or…let's face it, mildly bruised in the ego department. Not that I want Flint to come on to me. He's practically a stranger. No, he is a stranger.

  But apparently my dark and handsome stranger just took it into his brain to become a lot more familiar. I hear the bathroom door creak open, and I startle out of my thoughts. Before I can fully process that I might be overreacting to having my space invaded, I snatch the shower curtain and wrap it halfway around my frame, simultaneously thrusting my head out to see what he's doing.

  Flint has discarded his T-shirt in the other room, and I am treated to the unexpected sight of my rescuer's bare back. Muscles I don't even know the names of—that I didn't even know existed in the human body—ripple in supple succession, each one powering its neighbor to collaborate on the simplest movements, the smallest tasks.

  He really is a beautiful man. There is only one imperfection that I can immediately perceive; my eyes are drawn to a star-shaped scar on the back of his right shoulder. The wound is old, but it looks as if it had trouble healing. The scar tissue appears thick, and it's almost painful to watch it stretch itself taut as he moves about.

  It's about the size of a bullet wound, I realize. I've seen bullet wounds before, though never this close.

  He stands over the sink, drying his hair with a hand towel; when he sees my startled face in the mirror, he glances over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow.

  "What?"

  I blush furiously at the question. As if I need to tell him! But I try and talk myself up, try and convince myself that I can play this game.

  "You know, there are regular-sized towels folded on that shelf over there," I mention. I try to keep my voice as level as possible. Flint's dark eyes consider my expression, and then lower to take in my silhouette. I realize every detail of my body, every curve, is only barely concealed behind the opaque curtain. The plastic crinkles as I grip it a little harder.

  "I see only one," he says eventually. "You want me to use it?"

  He reaches for the shelf, and I thrust my hand out. "No!" I gasp, realizing too late that I'll need it if I ever want to exit this shower. He pauses, before slowly withdrawing his hand. I can't help it then; a short laugh escapes me. I can't tell by his expression if he meant to be funny, but I perceive a change in his gaze that is almost indicative of warmth. He turns and exits the bathroom, a smug smile playing up the corners of his lips. I exhale in relief and retreat back behind the curtain.

  As I finish bathing, I try not to think about the man that awaits me in the other room…and about the questions I might have to answer for.

  CHAPTER 4

  FLINT

  The sound of the shower running in the other room is driving me crazy. More specifically, thoughts of the occupant of the shower are driving me crazy.

  I flip on the TV as a form of distraction. I hear the shower twist off; I turn the volume up. At a motel like this, I'm not worried about disturbing the neighbors. Judging by the empty state of the parking lot, I doubt there is anyone staying in the room next door to us.

  I turn from the open door of the bathroom to unpack my saddlebags. I went out in the rain only briefly to retrieve them, but it was still enough to undo the drying regimen I subjected myself to in the bathroom. If I'm being honest with myself, my motives for entering the bathroom were less than pure. I could have waited until Ana was done showering, but I didn't.

  And I saw exactly what I expected I would see: a tantalizing shadow behind a curtain, undulating like a dancer until my interruption caused her to grab for the only covering available. I wonder what she would have done if I had grabbed it first.

  I entertain myself with wicked thoughts as I unpack. When Ana reenters the room, I'm disappointed to find she's left the towel behind her, and is dressed once more in the clothes I found her in back at the bar. While the woman herself is clean, her clothes are filthy. I notice a tear in her jeans that wasn't there when I first approached her to guard her drink, and my eyes narrow. I'm guessing it happened during the brief scuffle. She doesn't appear to have noticed it herself.

  "Here." I grab my spare change of clothes, nothing more than an inexpertly folded wad, and toss them to her. She catches them against her chest and blinks in surprise. "The pants won't fit you, but at least put a clean shirt on."

  "What about you?" she i
nquires. I feel the heat of her gaze as it travels down my naked torso, and something inside of me stirs. Does she like what she sees? I don't consider myself an arrogant man, at least not anymore. I may have been, once, when I lived a life of luxury and wealth and women came to me easily. My propensity for pride aside, I am aware that it is very unlikely, if she is at all hot-blooded, that she isn't looking at me with certain activities in mind.

  "What about me?" I return to sorting my supplies on the bed.

  "Well, aren't you...?" She clears her throat awkwardly before forging ahead. "Aren't you going to need a shirt? I mean, your other one is soaking wet."

  "It'll dry by morning." I can tell this isn't the answer she wants to hear. She stares at the bundle of clothes in her hands, eyebrows drawn together, but her discomfort in her own clothes eventually wins out. She disappears back into the bathroom and returns wearing my red flannel shirt. She is still doing up the top button when she reenters, and my breath catches a little when I spy a flash of her black bra. My throat tightens. I turn away once more.

  "Nothing on the local stations," I mention. "I doubt the bar called in the trouble. You can rest easy."

  "You're not the only one with doubts." Her eyes track toward the bed as I finish itemizing my supplies and relocate the bags to the table. "Were we planning on sharing the bed?"

  "I've been riding all day and most of the night," I reply without batting an eye. "I'm not sleeping on the floor."

  Ana's eyes widen, and I watch in amusement as her face sets. In one swift move, she snatches the top blanket off the bed, along with a pillow, and starts to bed down out of view on the other side of the mattress. Once she has almost settled herself in, I cross to the other side of the bed, bend down, and in one swift movement scoop her up into my arms, blanket and all. I then turn and toss her unceremoniously onto the bed, where she bounces and nearly falls off on the other side. A last-minute hand shoots out and she catches herself on the headboard, staring at me all the while as if she thinks I've lost my mind. When she sees me grinning, her expression changes, and she looks completely affronted. That red hair of hers, still damp from the shower, hangs disheveled around her face, and she pushes it aside angrily.

  I have rarely found grown women adorable, but she's making it hard not to think it…that is, until my eyes drift downward, and I realize the top button she was struggling with earlier has come undone. She doesn't appear to notice that she is partially exposed, and I find I don't care to point it out. Despite the strangeness of the situation, I'm enjoying myself. I've never had so much fun with a woman in bed that hasn't involved fucking.

  "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" she demands. She moves to rise up, and my splayed hand on her breastbone forces her back down again onto her back. The look of indignation is gone, replaced by that wide-eyed look I can't help feeling addicted to already. She tries to play herself off as hard, but I can tell she is so naïve. I feel like a cat playing with its meal. I know it isn't polite. Maybe I should continue the trend, just to make sure she knows where things stand between us. To make sure we both know.

  "I meant it before when I said you look awful." I give her an extra shove for good measure, before drawing my hand back. The threat of another button on that shirt coming undone seems very real. I have a momentary flash of taking that button between my teeth, tonguing the coin of plastic, before ultimately ripping it out and plunging my face between her heaving breasts. I've already asserted that I'm stronger than she is. It would be so easy, and somehow, I don't think this woman—Ana—would mind it.

  She does mind getting pushed around in the same breath as she's being insulted, though. She draws herself up on her elbows and frowns deeply; contrary to my words, it only makes her look cuter.

  "You didn't say I looked awful," she objects. "If I remember correctly, you said—"

  "You clearly aren't well-rested," I interrupt her. "It's none of my business. But we aren't children. We can share a bed as two consenting adults and keep our hands to ourselves."

  "You're going to give me whiplash," she mutters. She quickly rolls aside as I impose myself on the left side of the bed, establishing it as my territory. "One minute I think you're flirting with me, and the next you're insulting me. Then you offer me a ride when I need it most, practically without a word. You still haven't asked me who those men were."

  "None of my business," I repeat. "And come morning, you're none of my business, either."

  I reach over to switch off the bedside lamp, but my hand stalls when I hear her whispered question. "Why are you doing this?" Ana asks me. "There's nothing in it for you. If you're allowed to tell me how I look, then I have no problem telling you now that you don't look like a decent guy. You don't act like one, either…except when it counts."

  "Is that a compliment?" I drawl ironically. The light is coming off now. I flip the switch, plunging the room into darkness, and fall back on the bed. Ana inches a little further from me, but not too far, I notice; I can feel the side of her soft hand brush against mine. She quickly pulls it away and secrets it beneath the covers. Again, a filthy thought comes to me unbidden, of all the illicit activities that hand might get up to under there, just out of sight. I want to fish for it and draw it to me. I want to settle it on the fast-stiffening bulge in my pants that the sudden darkness has provoked. Existing in shadow is a lot like dressing in black, I find: people act differently—dangerously. They say and do things they wouldn't normally let cross their lips, much less guide their hands.

  "I'm not a decent man," I say finally. "Don't let a mental debate keep you up all night."

  "Believe me, Mr. Flint," she quips. "I'm not concerned about thoughts of you keeping me up all night."

  "Oh no?" I turn to the side to find my bedmate staring resolutely up at the ceiling. Before I can stop myself, I overturn quickly; the bed is smaller than the queen the reservation clerk promised, which would have been too small anyway for a man my size to comfortably share with anyone.

  I hear Ana gasp beneath me in the darkness, and then feel her lie still. I hold myself aloft above her, keeping our bodies perfectly aligned, as if I have just pinned her in a wrestling match. I gaze down at her with amusement as I watch her long legs stir and slide together beneath the too-thin sheets that separate us.

  Although I exerted little effort in the move, I can feel my heart starting to pulse hard, almost painfully, in my chest with our proximity. That was an unexpected side effect... I had not anticipated a little power play before bed to put me at a disadvantage.

  "What are you doing?" Her voice rises to me in a harsh whisper, but it sounds sweet and tremulous. "I thought you said we were both adults here!"

  "I'm starting to think that may be a problem after all," I rumble in my throat. I admire for a moment longer the way her lush red hair fans out around her head on the pillow; its fiery hue is even evident in the shadows of the unlit motel room. I shift slightly, pressing my knee against the outside of her thigh, and pull my right hand up from where it stabilizes me atop the bed. I see a flash of something across her face; she winces, as if she expects me to touch her, and this stalls my advance. I feel my own brows knit together in puzzlement as I watch her suck in a quick breath. I had mused on taking our intimacy further, but the anxiety in her expression draws me back into reality. We don't know each other. I'm a stranger to her, and her reaction to me now is indicative of a woman who has never been involved in the sort of one-night arrangement I'm inviting her to consider now.

  But that doesn't mean I can't continue the fun, just for a little longer. I take the raised hand and reach across her to her bedside table. I punch a few buttons and set the clock alarm for early morning, before spinning off her and falling back onto my back. I'm surprised to find my erection straining insistently against the front of my pants now, but there is no ready relief I can give it. Looks like my playful come-on backfired spectacularly.

  At least a sideways glance at Ana looks like she isn't going to get much rest
sleeping beside me, either. This is a stark contrast to why I insisted we both take the bed earlier. I snort a long, low breath from my nose and roll over to face the other way. A good night almost crosses my lips, but I suppress it. She surprises me by speaking instead.

  "Hey, what does 'R.B.' stand for?" she inquires conversationally. Almost like the last minute hasn't passed between us at all. She may be naïve and unused to the perils of the road, but she's certainly annoyingly good at bouncing back from situations that make her uncomfortable.

  "Go to sleep," I reply.

  "Is that the name of your gang? Are you in a gang?" she pressed. "Aren't you guys supposed to travel in a pack or something? If that's the case, why are you riding alone?"

  I don't offer any ready answers to her questions, and I hear her sigh in frustration. She overturns herself and attempts to pull the blankets with her, but my weight atop them anchors them firmly in place. She sighs again, trying to signal for my cooperation, but I don't move. I'm pondering what she's said.

  Why are you riding alone?

  CHAPTER 5

  ANA

  I wake up with a strange pair of arms wrapped around me. In the moment between sleep and waking, I snuggle back against them, craving the warmth of another body. It has been so long since someone has held me this way that I don't even bother wondering where I am or who I am with. I trust my own judgement implicitly in the matter. Obviously, I wouldn't go to bed with just anyone. This man, whoever he is, must be safe. I close my eyes and prepare to drift back off to sleep.