Page 10 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

She presses against my back on the bike, her thighs bracketing my hips, her hands flat on my stomach. Every red light is an eternity. Every mile feels like ten. Her fingers trace patterns on my abs through my shirt, dipping lower, teasing, and I nearly run us off the road twice.

By the time I pull into my driveway, I'm so hard it hurts.

We barely make it through the door.

Her back hits the wall and I'm on her, kissing her like I'm trying to consume her. She pulls at my shirt, buttons scattering across the floor, and when her hands find bare skin, I shudder.

"Pope—" My name on her lips is the sweetest thing I've ever heard.

"Ryder." I kiss down her jaw, her throat, the curve of her shoulder. "Call me Ryder."

"Ryder." She says it like a prayer. "Please."

I find the zipper at the back of her dress and drag it down slowly, letting the black fabric pool at her feet. She's all soft curves and warm skin, black lace barely covering the parts of her I've imagined a thousand times. I trace the swell of her breast with my thumb, watching her nipple harden beneath the fabric, and she arches into my touch.

"Do you have any idea," I murmur against her collarbone, "how long I've wanted this? Wanted you?"

"Show me."

I carry her to the bedroom, laying her down on sheets that have never held anyone but me. She looks up at me with eyes that hold no hesitation. No doubt. Just want, raw and open and devastating.

This first time is fast. Desperate. I can't slow down, can't make myself wait—seven years of denial have burned away my patience. I strip off the rest of my clothes while she unhooks her bra, and when I lower myself over her, skin to skin, we both gasp.

Her panties are soaked when I slide them aside. She's ready, so ready, and when I push inside her we both cry out. She's tight, hot, perfect—and I lose myself completely. I take her hard against the mattress, her nails raking down my back, her moans filling my ears. It's over embarrassingly fast, both of us shaking, gasping, clinging to each other like we'll drown if we let go.

"I'm sorry," I pant against her neck. "That was—I couldn't⁠—"

"Don't apologize." She kisses my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. "We have all night."

The second time is different.

I take my time. Learn her properly.

I start at her throat, kissing down the column of her neck while my hands map her body. The curve of her waist. The soft swell of her hips. The way she shivers when I trace the underside of her breast.

"You're beautiful." I circle her nipple with my tongue, feeling it tighten. "I've thought about this so many times. Touching you. Tasting you."

"Ryder..." Her voice breaks on my name.

I kiss lower. Down her stomach, over the soft curve of her belly, nuzzling the crease of her thigh. She trembles beneath me, fingers twisting in the sheets, and when I finally settle between her legs, she whimpers.

The first touch of my tongue makes her cry out. She tastes like heaven and sin, and I take my time—long, slow strokes that make her hips roll against my mouth. I learn what she likes: the way she gasps when I circle her clit, the way she moans when I slide two fingers inside her and curl them just right.

"Please—" Her thighs clamp around my head. "Oh god, please don't stop⁠—"

I don't stop. I push her higher, feeling her body tighten around my fingers, her cries growing desperate. When she finally breaks, it's with my name on her lips and her back arched off the bed, shaking through waves of pleasure that seem to go on forever.

I don't give her time to recover.

I rise over her, positioning myself at her entrance, and pause. "Look at me."

Her eyes flutter open. Dark. Dazed. Beautiful.

"I want you to see me," I tell her. "Want you to know who's inside you."

I push in slowly this time. Inch by inch. Watching her face, the way her lips part, the way her eyes go wide when I'm fully seated. She's still fluttering around me from her orgasm, and the sensation nearly breaks me.

"Ryder." She cups my face in her hands. "Move. Please."