Page 11 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

I do.

Long, deep strokes that let me feel every inch of her. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper, and we find a rhythm—slow, intense, our eyes locked. It's nothing like the frantic coupling before. This is something else. Something that feels like worship.

"You feel so good." I thrust deeper, harder, and she gasps. "So perfect. Like you were made for me."

"I was." She pulls me down for a kiss. "I think I was."

I feel her building again, feel the way she tightens around me with every stroke. I reach between us, pressing my thumb against her clit, and she shatters—crying out against my mouth, her whole body clenching around me. The sensation drags me over the edge with her. I bury myself deep and let go, spilling into her with a groan that comes from somewhere I didn't know I still had.

We collapse together, breathing hard, tangled up in each other and the sheets.

I hold her like she might disappear. She traces my scars with her fingertips, learning me the way I learned her. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say?

Hours later, I watch her sleep.

The moonlight turns her skin silver, her dark lashes fanned across her cheeks, her breathing slow and even. She looks peaceful. Content. Like she belongs exactly where she is.

In my bed. In my arms.

Let yourself have something good.

Marco's words echo in the darkness, and for the first time, I let myself believe he meant them.

But there's more she doesn't know. More I haven't told her. The full truth of how long I've loved her. The confession Marco dragged out of me years before he died. The permission he gave that I never felt I deserved.

I press a kiss to her shoulder. She stirs but doesn't wake.

I'll tell her everything. Soon, I'll risk losing her with the truth.

But tonight, I let myself have this.

Her. Us. Something good.

Even if I don't deserve it.

CHAPTER 4

MARA

Iwake up in Pope's bed, wearing nothing but his sheets and two years of guilt.

Consciousness comes slowly—fragments of sensation piecing themselves together like a puzzle I'm not sure I want to solve. The unfamiliar weight of heavy blankets. The masculine scent of leather and sandalwood clinging to the pillowcase. The delicious ache between my thighs that tells me last night wasn't a dream.

Last night.

Ryder.

His name on my lips in the dark. His hands on my body. The way he looked at me like I was salvation and damnation wrapped in one, like touching me was both the answer to everything and a sin he'd never stop paying for.

I reach across the bed, expecting warmth, expecting him—and find cold sheets instead.

My eyes snap open.

Early morning light filters through curtains I don't recognize, painting everything in shades of gray and gold. The bedroom is sparse, utilitarian—nothing on the walls, nothing personal except a worn leather jacket thrown over a chair and a photo on the nightstand I can't quite make out.

And Pope.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, elbows braced on his knees. The sheet pools at his waist, leaving his back bare—and for a moment, all I can do is stare. The tattoos I traced last night in the darkness are different in daylight. Darker. More detailed. A massive Hellbound Saints skull between his shoulder blades, flames licking up his spine, and something else woven through the flames that looks like names. Too many names.