Page 16 of The Biker and the Single Mom

She pressed her lips together for a moment, processing. Then her face cleared. "You're really strong," she said to Doc, something like worship in her expression.

"Strong enough to keep you both safe," he said quietly. "Always."

Pope cleared his throat from the doorway. "We're going to post someone outside tonight. Just in case. Diesel's taking first watch."

"That's not necessary—" I started.

"It's happening," Pope said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You're family now, Rory. We protect family."

Family. The word wrapped around me, warm and foreign and right.

"Thank you," I managed.

"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you meet the rest of the chaos." Pope's expression softened slightly. "Get her home, Doc. Long day."

Luna crashed at seven-fifteen, worn out from the move and the confrontation. I tucked her into the alcove, pulling the purple quilt up to her chin and making sure Mr. Hops was secure under her arm. The fairy lights cast a soft glow over her sleepy face.

"Love you, baby girl." I kissed her forehead.

"Love you, Mama. And Doc." She was already half-asleep, Mr. Hops tucked under her chin. "He's the best."

"He really is."

I found him in the kitchen, staring at his palms. They weren't shaking. For the first time since I'd known him, his hands were rock-steady.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah." He gazed up at me, something raw in his expression. "You?"

"I should be terrified. Matt showing up, threatening us, all of it." I moved closer, drawn by gravity or insanity or both. "But all I can think about is how you protected us. How you didn't hesitate. How you made me feel⁠—"

"How?"

"Whole." I touched his face, feeling the tension in his jaw. "You made me feel whole. Actually, genuinely complete for the first time in six years."

His fingers covered mine, pressing my palm against his cheek. "I'll always protect you. Both of you. That's not optional."

"I know." I rose on my toes, bringing my mouth close to his. "Cole?"

"Yeah?"

"Take me to bed."

He kissed me then—hard and desperate and full of two weeks of restraint breaking wide open. His palms found my waist, lifting, and I wrapped my legs around him. He carried me down the hall to our bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us.

He laid me on the bed with surprising gentleness, then straightened to pull off his shirt. Muscle and ink and scars—so many scars. Each one a story. Each one proof he'd survived.

He came to me, covering my body with his, and the weight of him felt right. Sheltered. Home. His mouth found mine again, slower this time, thorough. Learning me. Memorizing what made me gasp.

His fingers stripped away my clothes with efficient care, and when we were finally skin to skin, we both went still.

He kissed down my neck, my collarbone, lower. Taking his time. Worshipping instead of taking. His mouth found my breast, tongue circling my nipple until I arched into him.

"Cole—"

"I've got you." His palm slid between my thighs, finding me ready. "God, you're perfect."

He took his time there too, fingers moving in slow circles that had me gasping his name. Building me up, learning what I liked, what made my hips roll forward seeking more.