Page 39 of My Ex-Military Biker

"I know. I'm doing it anyway."

I lean down. Kiss her. Not deep, just contact. "You're welcome."

Then I go make coffee because if I stay there I'm going to get back in that bed and she actually is too sore for what I want to do to her.

The kitchen is exactly how we left it last night. Plates in the sink. The counter where I had her pressed before we made it to the bedroom.

I start coffee and while it brews I check my phone. Three texts from Clint.

Perry's stable. Surgery went well. Hand will recover.

Dutch is in the wind. We'll find him.

Check in when you're up.

I text back.

Up now. Perry's good news. I'll stop by the clinic later.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You good?

Clint doesn't ask that unless he actually wants to know.

Yeah. I'm good.

The woman staying?

Yeah.

Good. About time.

I almost smile at that.

The coffee finishes. I pour two cups. Black for me, black for her because I don't have anything else and she didn't complain yesterday.

Carry them back to the bedroom. She's sitting up now, sheet pulled around her, hair wild.

"Coffee," I say, handing her a cup.

"You're perfect," she says, taking it.

"Not even close."

"Close enough."

We drink coffee in silence. She's got the sheet tucked under her arms but her shoulders are bare. More marks there too. I keep finding places I left evidence.

"You need to see someone about those?" I ask, nodding at the marks.

"No. They'll fade."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. They're just bruises. I've had worse from moving furniture."

"I was rough."