The Biker's Rules
And that knowledge is the only reason I’m still breathing normally.
She grins suddenly. “Also, I think I’d rock a spotted loincloth like a frickin pro.”
Great. Now my brain supplies an unsolicited mental image — Kiara in some leopard-skin, barely-there bikini thingy, regal as hell, strutting around like an African princess.
I snort. Stress is wild like that.
The nurse calls my name, slicing through the moment, and Kiara doesn’t let go of my hand as we stand. She keeps it clasped in hers as if the floor might give way beneath me.