Ride Dirty (Raven Riders 3.50)

A tingle ran down her spine.

“This isn’t right,” she said. The man had saved her. Taken care of her. The least she could do was invite him in to wait. Determined, she marched to her door and went back out onto the stoop. “You’re still waiting.” He didn’t answer. “Obviously, you’re still waiting. So, come in.”

That got a reply. “What?”

“Come in already. It’s cold out here.” She hugged herself.

“Good night, Emma.”

She made for his bike. “This is ridiculous. If you’re going to insist on waiting, which is very much above and beyond, then I have to insist on you doing it inside my house where it’s not freezing.”

Arms crossed, his voice was a low rumble. “You have to insist?”

Two could play the stubborn game. And she dealt with five-year-olds for a living, so he didn’t know who he was dealing with. She crossed her arms, too. “I do.”

He tilted his face toward her, allowing her to just make out the stern set of his features. And it was the first time that all that edgy intensity, all that darkness, and all that gruffness tripped the switch in her brain that registered sex appeal. Registered it hard.

This guy was nothing like the men she occasionally dated—other young professionals she met at her gym or through friends. But, man, there was something about this dark knight thing Caine had going on that was suddenly—and epically—hot. Maybe it was the way his long legs stretched out from the bike. Or the way his crossed arms emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Or the way seeing him in shadow emphasized the strong angles of his face.

“What happened to my being a stranger and having a knife and breaking into your house?” he asked.

She almost laughed because he was so obvious in his attempt to be not-reassuring now. Which, go figure, actually was reassuring. “Well, in the time since you used your knife to protect me, we’ve gotten on a first-name basis, you had someone bring me medicine, and you used your powers for good. Plus Chewy wagged his tail at you and he’s a very good judge of character. So…” She gestured toward her house and grinned. “Won’t you please come in?”

* * * *

This is not a good fucking idea.

That was Caine’s thought as he dismounted the bike.

So then why was he doing it?

It had better not be because the blonde was cute as fuck. Though she was. And not just because she was pretty. She was also playful and talkative, earnest and funny. And she didn’t seem put off by him, even when he tried to put her off. All of that reminded him of someone he once knew. Someone who’d once been stuck to him like glue no matter what he’d said. Someone who’d once called him her hero.

Someone he didn’t want to be reminded of.

So, yeah, it had better not be because of any of that.

As he climbed the steps to her row house, he felt like he was headed to the goddamned gallows. Which just proved how big of a fucking misfit he was.

“If they’re true to their estimate, it should only be another thirty minutes,” she said as she led him into the living room.

A place where, apparently, Santa Claus knickknacks went to die judging by the sheer number of them. Jesus. He peered around. Big, little, glass, wooden…Santas appeared on every surface. The mantle. The end tables. The built-in bookcase. Behind him, a big tree blocked most of the front windows, its branches laden with colored lights and ornaments. But even if Christmas hadn’t thrown up all over her living room, the place would’ve appeared feminine, what with the overstuffed white furniture, baby blue pillows, and frilly lamps and floral curtains.

“Go ahead, make your comment,” she said from behind him.

He turned to find her in the doorway that led to the dining room and kitchen beyond. The light of which backlit her hair, making it glow in a halo around her face.

Like he needed the reminder of her sweetness and decency. She was a kindergarten teacher, for God’s sake, which nearly made her the poster child for wholesome innocence. And he’d had a threesome with strangers earlier tonight. Caine shook his head. What the hell was he doing in her house again? “Nothing to say.”

She arched a brow, seemingly unaware of how out of place he felt. He was the guy best left in the shadows to rain down justice when it needed to be dispensed—the ache in his not fully healed hand was just the most recent reminder of that. He wasn’t the guy you made nice with and invited inside. And never had been.

“Really?” she teased.

“A wise man knows when to keep silent.”

She laughed. “Does a wise man also like coffee? Soda?”

“I don’t need anything.” Standing in the middle of the living room, he literally itched to leave. “In fact, I’m just gonna—”