Page 4 of The Biker and the Single Mom

From the way she'd looked at me when Luna fell asleep in my arms. From the gratitude in her voice that made my chest ache. From the knowledge that she's just on the other side of that door, probably stripping out of those rumpled clothes and⁠—

Don't go there. She's vulnerable, running scared, and the last thing she needs is some asshole thinking about her naked.

Even if that asshole can't stop thinking about it.

I close my eyes and listen to the sounds from my bedroom. Water running in the bathroom. The creak of floorboards. The quiet rustle of fabric.

Then the door opens.

Rory stands there in my shirt.

My gray t-shirt, the one I'd tossed over the chair this morning, now hangs on her like a dress. It falls to mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, and she's drowning in fabric that smells like me. Her hair's down now, damp from a quick wash, falling in dark waves around her face.

Every rational thought evacuates my brain.

"I hope—" She tugs at the hem self-consciously. "Is it okay? I didn't want to sleep in my clothes, and I didn't have anything clean in my bag, and this was just sitting there, so I⁠—"

"It's fine." The words come out rougher than I intend. "Keep it."

She wraps her arms around herself, and the movement pulls the shirt tighter across her chest. I force my gaze up to her face.

"I just wanted to say thank you again," she says softly. "And—I know this is weird. Me wearing your shirt, sleeping in your bed. But I don't—I haven't felt this safe in a long time. So thank you. For giving us somewhere to just... breathe."

"Rory—"

"I should let you rest." She backs toward the bedroom, and my shirt shifts with the movement, riding up another inch. "Goodnight, Doc."

"Goodnight."

She disappears into the bedroom, and I hear the soft click of the door, the creak of the bed as she settles in next to Luna.

I drop my head back against the couch and stare at the ceiling.

Not touching her takes everything I have.

She's in my bed, wearing my shirt, and all I want to do is follow her in there and⁠—

No. She's running from a man who controlled her, who wouldn't take no for an answer. The last thing she needs is another man putting his hands on her before she's ready.

Even if every instinct I have is screaming at me to protect her, claim her, make sure she never has to run again.

My hands don't shake when I'm working. When I've got a purpose, a mission, someone to save.

But lying here in the dark, knowing Rory's just on the other side of that door?

My hands tremble.

I curl them into fists and close my eyes, listening to the sound of her breathing. Deep and even now, finally resting.

Tomorrow I'll figure out what to do about Matt. About keeping them safe. About all the practical logistics of hiding a woman and her kid from a cop who won't let go.

Tonight, I've got watch duty.

And I've never been better at anything in my life.

Even if it means lying here wanting something I can't have, protecting someone who doesn't belong to me, falling for a woman I just met and knowing—absolutely knowing—that my life just changed in ways I can't take back.

But that's tomorrow's problem.