Her Biker Wolf (Obsessed Mates 2)

4

Maya

Iwatch dazedly as Forge locks up the shop. The front door has three locks, and he pulls down a metal exterior blind that covers the entire frontage.

Am I crazy to go to his hideout with him alone?

Maybe.

But right now, I don’t have any choice. Someone looking for me is very bad news.

And, I don’t know…. I trust Forge. I’ve just turned his whole life upside down, but somehow he’s willing to help me. I don’t know why he’s doing this for me. I’m just glad he is.

I keep stealing glances at him when he’s not looking.

My lips are still burning from his kiss. It was the first kiss of my life, but I don’t think kissing could feel better than that. My stomach fluttered, my whole body tingled, and that place between my thighs started to ache. I longed for him to touch me, all over those tingling, aching spots. I wanted to be naked with him. More than that.

I’m so confused.

When I was thirteen—on the day I got my period—my mom made me promise that I’d never take a shifter as a mate. “They’re bad boys. They only bring you heartache,” she said.

I laid my hand on hers and made the promise easily. I knew how unhappy she’d been with Demetrius’s dad, and I had no intention of mating a shifter.

But now… now I feel drawn to this big, fierce wolf man in a way I can’t even explain to myself. It’s not just his looks, not just the physical effect he has on me. It’s so weird. I keep thinking, I’m his.

Which makes no sense at all.

Forge leads me to a utility room at the back of the shop, and he picks up a leather jacket.

“Try this on,” he says.

“We’re riding a motorcycle?”

“Yup.” He flashes a wicked grin.

He must be from an MC pack, I think as I pull the jacket on. Which makes him even more dangerous than I appreciated.

“What about my car?” I ask.

He stills, thinking. “Where is it parked?”

“On the street.”

“No reason why anyone should be able to identify it. But I’ll ask Meredith if she can put it in a garage someplace. That okay?”

“I could drive us?” I say hopefully.

He looks at me like I’ve cracked the most ridiculous joke in the history of the world. “Nah. Bike’s a lot faster.”

He fastens my jacket up and looks at it critically. It’s a little big, but good enough.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a full set of leathers for you,” he says, and something like guilt passes across his features. “But you’ll be safe with me. I’ll ride extra careful.”

I expect him to put on a leather vest with a club patch on it. But he just tugs on a regular leather jacket. No patches at all.

He grabs a helmet off a shelf, examines it, then places it carefully on my head. He tests it for tightness, then he fastens up the chinstrap. The way this dangerous guy is being so caring toward me makes me all fuzzy and kind of breathless.

He sets up an alarm, fiddles with a security camera system, then opens the back door.