Her Possessive Bikers

23. Kyler

23

KYLER

T he clubhouse has quieted down, most of the brothers either passed out or gone home. My footsteps echo through the empty hallway as I climb the stairs to Indy's room. That Crystal bitch at dinner was brutal - typical club behavior, but Indy doesn't deserve that shit.

I pause outside her door, running a hand through my loose hair. My knuckles hover over the wood before I finally knock.

"Come in," Indy calls out.

She's curled up on the bed in sweats and an old Al's body shop t-shirt that must have been Brick's - it hangs off one shoulder. The TV flickers, casting blue shadows across her face.

"Hey. Just wanted to check if you're okay after..." I gesture vaguely. "You know."

"Those bitches?" She snorts. "I've dealt with worse working night shifts in the ER."

"Still. It's different when you're stuck living with them."

"They don't know who they're fucking with Kyler Jones," she says with a wink as she stuffs her mouth with popcorn. I never knew someone eating popcorn could be so fucking sexy.

"Want to watch something with me?" Indy pats the space beside her on the bed. "I found this ridiculous movie on Netflix."

My heart skips. I should say no. Should keep my distance. Being beside Indy in a bed, hell, I don't know if I can control myself. But her smile draws me in like a moth to flame. "Sure, why not?"

I settle next to her, careful to leave space between us. The movie's some cheesy rom-com about a wedding planner who falls for the groom.

"Oh god," I groan as the lead actress trips and falls face-first into a wedding cake. "This is terrible."

"Exactly!" Indy laughs, the sound warming something inside me. "Look at her face - it's like she's never seen cake before."

"Maybe she's allergic to fondant."

"Who isn't? That stuff's basically edible plastic."

We fall into an easy rhythm of commentary, picking apart every cliché scene. When the inevitable rain-soaked confession of love comes, we both groan in unison.

"Because apparently love isn't real unless you're catching pneumonia," Indy quips.

"Hey, nothing says romance like seasonal flu." I catch her eye and we both burst out laughing.

She shifts closer, her shoulder brushing mine. "Thanks for staying. I needed this after today's drama."

"Anytime." The words come out softer than intended. Her hair smells like vanilla and something distinctly her, and I'm hyper-aware of every point where we touch.

The credits roll and I glance at my phone. Almost midnight. "Should probably let you get some sleep," I say reluctantly, even though every cell in my body wants to stay.

"Wait." Indy reaches for something on her nightstand. "Let me check out your stitches and put some of this on your cuts first. It'll help prevent scarring."

"Baby, scars kind of go with the territory." The endearment slips out before I can catch it, but I'm already pulling my shirt over my head.

She scoots closer on the bed her fingers trace the edge of one of the deeper cuts, sending electricity racing through my skin. "These are healing nicely though."

The cream is cool against my skin, but her touch burns. I watch her face as she works - the way she bites her lower lip in concentration, how her eyes follow the path of her fingers across my chest. The vanilla scent of her shampoo fills my lungs with each breath.

"Does it hurt?" she whispers, her palm flat against my stomach now, nowhere near any of the cuts.

"Not anymore." My voice comes out rougher than intended. Her fingers trail higher, mapping the contours of my chest. When I look down, her face is inches from mine, eyes dark with something that makes my pulse race.

"Kyler..." The way she says my name undoes me.

I gently tug her wrist, pulling her onto my lap. Her thighs straddle mine as her hands slide up my bare chest. The weight of her against me sets every nerve ending on fire.

"Tell me to stop," I breathe against her lips, giving her one last chance to back away. "Tell me it's wrong, that I'm fucking crazy for craving you like this."

Instead, she threads her fingers through my hair, pulling it loose from its tie. "Kyler Jones. Don't you fucking dare."

That's it. The thread snaps. When our lips finally meet, it's like a match striking gasoline. She tastes like mint and possibility, her mouth soft but demanding against mine. I run my hands up her sides, fingertips slipping under the hem of that oversized t-shirt to find warm skin.

"God, Kyler," she sighs into my mouth. The sound of my name on her lips makes me groan.

Her hips rock against mine as she deepens the kiss. My hands span her waist, pulling her closer. She nips at my bottom lip and I growl, sliding one hand up her spine.

"Been wanting to do this since you walked out of the clubhouse that day," I confess between kisses.

"Took you long enough." She smirks against my mouth, rolling her hips in a way that makes me see stars.

I capture her lips again, harder this time. Her hands explore my chest, tracing old scars and new cuts with careful fingers. When she shifts again, the friction makes me gasp.

"Careful, baby," I warn, voice rough. "Keep that up and you might get more than you bargained for."

She laughs, the sound vibrating against my lips. "Maybe I don't give a shit, do your worst."

All rational thought goes out the fucking window. Indy Cooper is about to be mine.