A vampire hell-bent on saving the world…
…and the woman destined to save his soul.

For TIFFANY WELLS, promotion to head scientist would be the cherry on top of her new life—a life free from heartache, abuse and control. She has everything Hogan Pharmaceuticals wants ... except a Y chromosome. If her sexist boss doesn’t fray her last nerve, her new colleague just might—the cover model in a lab coat and leather is a distraction awakening fantasies she’d all but forsaken.

GIDEON FANG needs a mate to end his immortality and save his soul. But first, he must save the world. He’s infiltrated Hogan Pharmaceuticals to sabotage a top-secret vaccine—one drop in the human population will unleash hell on earth. Gaining access to the vaccine should be his biggest challenge. But finding his unwilling soulmate just might kill him.

With both vampires and mankind on the cusp of destruction, Gideon must choose—save the lives of many or the soul of one. But he needs Tiffany's help for both.

Can Gideon convince Tiffany to trust a man who, on the outside, appears so much like her abusive, alpha ex? And can Tiffany release the ghosts of her past to embrace her future?

HER BIKER’S BITE is a steamy, save the world romance featuring a sexy vampire and his stuffy, scientist fated mate. This first book in the STEAMY BITES series is a ride you’ll never forget. So buckle up and enjoy!

Chapter 1

Tiffany

You should slide into an orgasm like hot fudge sauce slides over chocolate cake.

I tried to imagine that same fudge sauce sliding down my body as a lithe, talented mouth feasted on the dessert, on me. My head slammed the headboard and my eyes shot open.

An earnest, try-too-hard expression filled my vision, the accompanying puppy dog eyes and short-cropped, black curls not nearly as sexy as they were before the onset of our horizontal mambo.

Getting off shouldn’t be this hard—pun one-hundred percent intended.

I scrunched my eyes as the heavens opened up outside and raindrops rattled the windows. I tried to lose myself in the moment. In Peter—or was it Paul’s—fumbling. His spasmodic oh, God and awwwesome interjections. The careful groping, the measured, timed-perfect pump and grind, and grunts of him losing himself while nothing came to me. No stars or universe exploding. No thoughts of England. And definitely no orgasm, earth-shattering or otherwise.

Did I put the wash in before I left?

A vision of my full-to-overflowing laundry basket overtook the image of Peter/Paul’s blood-infused face.

Damn, I don’t think I did. My work shirt would never dry before morning. That means a complete change of wardrobe for our strategy meeting scheduled first thing.

“Oweee!” Peter/Paul’s heavy mass stiffened, shuddered, then slumped against my still wanting body.

My ears rang. My skin pricked sticky with his sweat. His heavy breath prickled my throat.

“Awesome.” His hand brushed my breast in practiced, circular strokes. “Hey, you didn’t come. Want me to go down and finish you off?”

I shuddered. God, no.

He slid down my body, misreading my reaction, which had nothing to do with anticipation. The last guy who endeavored to “finish me off” bit me so badly I couldn’t pee without pain for weeks.

I pulled him back up. “Next time.”

I tried to smile. Failed abysmally, from the look on his face. That hopeful, eager to please puppy-dog expression vanished, a look that had seen me relent and follow him to his place for a “night cap.”

Should there even be a next time? Why did I keep trying, keep hoping that “this time” things would be different? Casual sex, hot office sex, sex with a stranger, sex with a friend. I’d tried it all, with high hopes, only to be left with low—or like now—no result.

No one got me going like Sammy. Always charged, always ready, and as sexy as my imagination. All I had to do was keep him forever supplied with batteries. He did the rest.

In all my experience—not as much vast as varied—men just didn’t have the wherewithal—or technique—to get me off. Sammy was reliable and hit the spot. Always.

Did men even know there was a spot? A mere seven letters into the alphabet. Not so far that you’d get lost on the way.

If only I could meet a real-life Sammy, my life would be complete.

“I can’t leave you hanging. Let me finish you off.”

Hell, back to Peter. Paul? Or maybe Patrick. He hadn’t even started. I was already finished. I had laundry to do. And a real bad headache, starting in my temple and finishing smack between my thighs.

I pulled back and glanced at the time.

“Damn, is it midnight already?” I wriggled and rolled till I’d freed myself from his weight. “I have an early morning meeting and a heap of prep I haven’t even started yet.”

I eyed my silk blouse, folded meticulously on a large chair, along with my meticulously folded A-line skirt. Even my underwear was symmetrically folded in a pile of its own. Foreplay had been as exciting as a wet blanket. No mad rush to get my clothes off and get dirty.

Everything meticulously in its place.

That should have been my warning right there.

I slipped into my shirt and shimmied into my skirt. My undies and bra, I stuffed into my bag.

“Thanks so much for—” What could I say? Fun? A good time? It wasn’t even mediocre. “Thanks.”

I bolted through the door and out into the night, pushing back thoughts of the recent double disappearance two blocks over. Instead, I looked up at the sky. Please let the rain be gone. Drops the size of gooseberries began the process of frizzing my hair before drizzling down my back. I ducked my head.

Another hope dashed.

Forever the optimist. Forever disappointed. That was me.

*

The meeting dragged. It seemed to be the flavor of my life at the moment. Time dragging. Dissatisfaction slumping like uncast clay in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe it was lower.

It didn’t help that the new scientist in the newly launched Biological Standards wing of our little pharmaceutical company was late. It made me pissy. Even more so that Graeme—our normally “lateness is tardiness is disrespectfulness” boss—seemed quite blasé about the totally blatant display of tardiness and lack of respect. Welcome to a century when only the semblance of equality existed. The whole bro-code, sexist bullshit still ran rampant in New Orleans, and in particular, in our offices.

The conference room door swung open, and our frazzled-looking—or was that dazzled-looking—admin assistant, Jane, hobbled into the room. Normally she would have stumbled, but hard to do that—or maybe not in the case of Jane—when your leg’s still in a knee-high cast. Distraction and the wrong kind of guy could do that to you.

I shoved at the thought, and the telltale pain it brought with it.

Distraction wasn’t all bad. Kinda like the guy who followed her into the room.

Jane stuttered, her face so pink she resembled a grapefruit. The pink kind. “Gideon Fang.”

Lady parts that hadn’t been properly fed in a while suddenly perked up and took notice.

Shit-hot.

No other way to describe the black-leather and denim covered, muscle-clad hunk who strode into the room like he owned it, and every one of us with it.

Nu-uh.

An alpha male with an over-developed sense of importance was the last thing our company needed. My temper prickled. That explained the flow of lava straight through my center—not the motorcycle helmet in his hand or the vision of his thick, muscle-bound thighs wrapped tight round his vibrating machine. Heat burned my face, no doubt to the shade of overripe raspberries.

They’d go down a treat with that hot fudge sauce.

Stop it!

I licked my lips, and green-almost-golden eyes latched onto them. I felt their caress, as if his tongue joined mine in its quest.

Fuck.

That word dragged rampant images to my mind. Inappropriate images for strategy meetings with a room full of stuffy scientists. All stuffy but one.

“Ahh, Gideon.” Graeme stood and pumped the man’s hand like they were long lost friends.

I hated that I noticed how large and strong that hand looked clasped in Graeme’s pudgy one. Hated that my mind flew to the promises a large hand suggested.

“Take a seat. We’ve only just started.”

No indication the meeting had droned for the past half hour, waiting for Lord Gideon to arrive.

I was pissy. Unusually so. I should have ridden Sammy last night, instead of tossing my clothes into the wash before falling exhausted into bed. That would have taken the edge off whatever reaction was taking place right now.

Gideon, our newest testosterone-rich addition to the team, made his way round the table.

Crap.

How did I not notice the only vacant spot sat to my right?

He sprawled into the chair, but not before dropping his helmet onto the table and shaking hands with Mannie—our communicable diseases, or CDC, head scientist—before turning to me to do the same.

I blame my impeccable manners and pitiful lack of balls for letting him take my hand in a firm, pussy-drenching shake. His gaze drilled into mine. Drilled deep, where gazes shouldn’t delve.

I snatched my hand free and nodded my greeting. Hard to speak when your tongue’s lodged halfway down your throat.

“Now that Gideon’s here, let’s get started.” As if we hadn’t started already. Again, my mercury shot skyward. I was over this whole male domination thing. Had been over it since I’d applied for the new role only to be told the company was bringing someone in.

Call me shallow, but my instant dislike—yeah, that explained my reaction—had reason. Gideon had not only usurped the promotion I’d worked my butt off to earn, but he’d also upped the male to female ratio, and it wasn’t in double-X chromosome’s favor.

“So, as I was saying, work on the Influenza A H3N2v4 antidote has been ramped up, with the new, earlier release date now set for . . . blah blah blah.” It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard it all before. I zoned. Tried not to notice the heat emanating from the body beside me. Or the fact his knee bumped mine every time he moved. Which seemed like an awful lot, if you were counting. Which I wasn’t.

An hour later, the meeting was over. Just as frigging well. My thighs had aced a better workout than they ever did in yoga. If I’d clenched them any tighter, my butt cheeks would have shattered.

I jumped out of my seat and was at the door before anyone else had risen. Sanctuary, at last. And an opportunity to strategy-plan my avoidance of Gideon in the future.

“Ahh, Tiffany, one moment please.” Pudgy finger raised in a “wait right there” gesture, my boss had spoken. And one never ignored the boss. Even when one was so horny, even a look—not Graeme’s—would turn my already melting body to sauce.

Why did my thoughts always come back to sauce?

And there was another unfortunate word. Come. Something I hadn’t done in the last twenty-four hours. And curse the fact that if I had, this whole sordid day would have gone a lot differently.

Men didn’t spark this kind—or strength—of reaction in me. Never had. No doubt, they never would. Sure, the knowledge never stopped me from trying—hence, my non-event last night—but nothing ever changed. For my sanity, if nothing else, I needed to accept my fate, marry Sammy and move on.

Because whatever reaction Gideon triggered, he was off limits. Regardless of my no work-fucking policy, I didn’t do alphas. Been there, done that, and the bruises had healed, just not the scars.