Page 13 of My Christmas Biker

“So, you’re a fighter, not a lover?” I joked.

“Baby, I’d say I’m just as much a lover as a rebel.”

Oh, wow. The way his voice lowered, digging low and full of grit, husky, and carrying a hint of promise, made me clench my thighs together. I couldn’t help feeling that he would satisfy me in multiple ways in bed. A man like him had to fuck with the same intensity as he gave off.

God, he was sexy. It wasn’t just the way he looked. Brick was intelligent, charming, and just happened to be Santa’s helper this Christmas. His offer to set aside his holiday to help me get home meant the world to me. I didn’t know how I would ever repay him.

I snuck a glance in his direction, taking in his muscled forearms as he drove. He’d shoved the sleeves of his thermal shirt up to his elbows, and I noted the veins and sculpted contours, the roadmap of dark ink, and the large, calloused hands that held the steering wheel. He was ripped and pure sin. I could see he worked and played hard.

Brick wasn’t wrong when he said he was a rebel. I got that vibe from him the second we met, but the hunger in his gaze and the open flirtation surprised me. I didn’t expect him to be as attracted to me as I was to him.

Why? Because I wasn’t anything like the girls who showed up to his biker club parties. I was certain of that. I had thick thighs and an ass, curves, and my tummy wasn’t flat. I didn’t walk around in high heels or miniskirts. I’d never gotten a tattoo. I never even more much makeup. I had to be plain compared to the women he saw around his clubhouse.

Was I making judgments? Maybe. But I still felt like I wasn’t wrong.

“Hey, you got quiet on me. Did I scare you?”

“Oh, no. I was just wondering about your tattoos.” Okay, that wasn’t all, but close enough.

“Ink is personal for almost everyone. Same with me.”

I believed him.

“I’ve always had a fascination with gettin’ as many as I could. Most of my upper body is filled, and I’m already working on my legs.”

“Which ones are your favorite?”

“There’s one on my chest that holds special meaning. A friend that’s no longer with us.”

“I’m sorry.” How sad.

“I appreciate that, Sweetheart. He was my best friend. Some bastard with a vendetta against the club gunned him down.”

“Oh my God! That’s horrible.”

“I’ve never forgotten him. In fact, the anniversary of his death is coming up.”

“I’m sure it makes the holidays a little harder.”

“It does.”

“I lost my father around this time, too,” I admitted, swallowing as I hoped I wouldn’t cry. “Every year after Christmas, when I celebrate my birthday, it’s always bittersweet.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand. “That’s gotta be hard. When is your birthday, Beautiful?”

“December twenty-eighth.”

Brick repeated the date and pulled his palm away. His hand rose and gripped the steering wheel tight. “Ginger, what’s your last name?”

What an odd question. “Why do you need to know?”

“Humor me. I’m trying to work something out.”

Fine. “Bedford. Ginger Bedford.”

Brick clenched his jaw and shook his head. “I didn’t see it.”

“See what?”