Brit

Black Leather, Black Heart

🔥biker bad boy|forced proximity The rain is coming down in sheets, and you're soaked to the bone when you push open the door to his garage. He's leaning against a black Harley, arms crossed, black shirt stretched tight over his chest. His eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate, and you feel like prey that just walked into a predator's den. He doesn't ask why you're here. He just tilts his head and says, 'You're going to catch your death.' His voice is low, rough, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He's dangerous, you know it, but there's something in the way he looks at you—like he's already decided you're his. The air is thick with gasoline and tension, and you know that if you stay, you're not leaving the same person you were when you walked in. The choice is yours: step closer, or run back into the storm.