The Belle and the Biker

The Belle and the Biker KENZIE REED Copyright 2022 by Kenzie Reed This book is intended for readers 18 and older only, due to adult content. It is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this book are products of the imagination of the author. License Statement This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Contents 1. Savannah 2. Savannah 3. Savannah 4. Crash 5. Savannah 6. Savannah 7. Savannah 8. Savannah 9. Savannah 10. Crash 11. Savannah 12. Savannah 13. Savannah 14. Savannah 15. Crash 16. Savannah 17. Savannah 18. Crash & Savannah 19. Crash 20. Savannah 21. Savannah 22. Savannah 23. Savannah 24. Savannah 25. Crash 26. Savannah 27. Savannah 28. Savannah Epilogue Meet Kenzie CHAPTER 1 Savannah My great-aunt Hepzibah has done many horrible things in her life. That pretty much goes without saying. We're Harkwells; we're a generally awful family. We're steal-your-man-and-your-prizewinning-pie-recipe kind of people. I should know… I've done both. And so has Aunt Hepzibah. But as far as I'm concerned, the highest on her list of sins is interrupting me this morning while I'm in the middle of a particularly passionate make-out session with Crash McClanahan. I don't care that she's in North Carolina and I'm in Manhattan, and she has no idea what I'm up to. I don't even care that this has to be a dream because Crash is in California—and if he were here, we'd be aggressively ignoring each other. None of that's important. The only thing that matters is Crash's muscular arms wrapped around me, pressing me up against his broad chest, his soft lips claiming mine. His silky beard tickles my face, and he tastes like sweet coffee. Then a ringing sound shatters the air, and Crash starts to fade. Half conscious, I slap at the cell phone on my nightstand. The ringing stops, and I pull the pillow over my head and slide back into Dreamland. We were standing on a beach before. We're in a bedroom, staring face-to-face, and I'm pressed against a wall. How did we get there? Dream logic. It doesn't matter. My body pulses with desire, and Crash has never looked more handsome—or more dangerous. His brown eyes have a dark glint, and he grabs me roughly by the shoulders—just the way I like it. "Why did you make me wait for you?" The primal growl in his voice sends shivers through my body. I wind my arms around his waist. "You deserved it." I thicken my accent so it's a sexy Southern drawl because I know it turns him on. He scoffs. "What, did I use the wrong fork at Dunkin?" Seriously? Even in my dreams, he's giving me a hard time. I tilt my head back and breathe him in. He smells like cologne, leather, and sweat, but not in a gross way—in a sexy, manly, "I just worked out" way. "Shut up and kiss me," I order him. "I like you much better when you're not talking." "The feeling is mutual," he growls. Of course, he has to get the last word in. But then he starts kissing me, and we're melting together, and… Brrrrinnng…Brrrrinnng… Crash evaporates like mist, and reality slams down on me. I'm back in my tiny apartment, tangled up in my sheets. And I'm suffering from a severe case of dreamus interruptus. When I'm awake, I mostly banish Crash from my thoughts. In my dreams, he can have me six ways to Sunday, and I don't have to feel guilty about it. After all, dreams are entirely out of my control. It's not my fault that I'm sleep-sexing a rude, scary, impossibly handsome biker who wants nothing to do with me by the light of day. I squint out the window. Sunlight's streaming in; it's morning. I ran my butt off at work until 4 a.m. last night, and I'd like another twenty hours of sleep, but whoever's calling me doesn't care. Cursing under my breath, I grab my cell phone and answer it. "Good morning. Savannah Harkwell speaking," I sing. I sound like the gracious Southern girl I was raised to be, not a cranky New York waitress ready to reach through the phone and throttle the person on the other end. My great-aunt Hepzibah's gravelly voice greets me. "Well, at least you haven't lost all your manners." Her accent is even thicker than mine, and it comes out like "yoah mannahs." "Although it does sound like you just woke up," she continues. "Really, Savannah. It's 10 a.m. Idleness is not an attractive quality for a young lady." "I'm hardly idle. I slept in because I worked until 4 a.m." I sit up, swinging my feet off the side of the bed. She switches to a new line of attack. "Only certain types of women work those kinds of hours." "Like nurses, doctors, EMTs, police officers? Soldiers? Air traffic controllers?" I won that round, but she'll never acknowledge it. "I do hope you find employment with more suitable hours soon. Nothing good ever happens after 10 p.m." She sniffs loudly enough to communicate her disapproval. "I was calling to ensure you received your birthday card. I hadn't received a thank-you card, but considering your branch of the family, that's not surprising." With Aunt Hepzibah, you can always hear the subtext. You low-class pretenders. We're the Mulberry Acres Harkwells, which says it all if you're from Swampy Bottom County. There are several branches of the family, and we're the lowest on the totem pole. My great-great-great-grandfather, a prosperous farmer, married his chambermaid after his wife passed away and