Fall (VIP #3)(86)

“How very high tech,” I say, the flutters shifting to raw nerves. Given the fact that I love speed, I shouldn’t be nervous at all. And maybe it’s more that I want to enjoy this with John. I want him to love what I have planned for my part of the day too.

I let all of that go and follow John to the motorcycle. He gives me a wide grin and then puts on his helmet. And I burst out laughing. His helmet is sleek and black, and on the side of it, in glittering gold, are the words “Stella’s Ride.”

“Your chariot,” he says, still grinning and holding out his hand.

“Impressive.” The bike looks like a cross between vintage and new, almost steampunk. The paint is matte black with bronze accents. At this point, I’m more interested in the nicely padded seat.

John runs a hand over the edge of it. “This is a limited-edition Ducati Italia Scrambler. I have a number of different bikes, dual sport, touring, a few racers.” His lips twitch wryly. “I used to drive an awesome Harley Fat Boy, but I loaned it to Killian, and the asshat drove it into Libby’s lawn. Poor baby hasn’t been the same since.”

“Isn’t that how they met?” I vaguely recall reading about Killian and Libby’s love affair and how he’d crashed on her lawn.

“Yeah.” John shakes his head, but he’s clearly amused. “Since, he’s been a smitten kitten, so I can’t begrudge him too much. Ah, well, live and learn.” John pats the seat. “Let’s put this honey to the test, eh?”

What I didn’t realize about riding a motorcycle is that it vibrates, a lot. Right against my crotch. Combine that with pressing up against John’s lean, hard body, my arms wrapped around his waist, and I’m more than a little distracted by the time we finally escape Manhattan and head for Long Island.

As soon as we’re in the clear, John lets the Ducati loose. I squeal and laugh. It’s like flying. Only with the benefit of being able to hold onto John’s warmth.

Over the helmet speakers, I hear his voice. “Let me know if you’re scared or want to pull over. Okay, Button?”

“Punch it, rocker boy.”

He laughs, going faster. I squeeze him for the sheer joy of it.

The Ducati eats up the road. John plays music through the helmets, his taste eclectic but all of it fast-paced for the ride. When Prince’s “Raspberry Beret” comes on, I throw up my hands to feel the air.

“How you holding up?” John asks when we stop at a burger joint a while later.

I swallow down a bite of melty cheeseburger before answering. “Okay. But I’m beginning to suspect I’ll be sore later.” His motorcycle might be fast and powerful, but I feel every bump on the road—intimately.

John turns his barstool to face me, then grabs a few fries. “Not to worry, ma’am. Here at John’s Bitchin’ Rides, we offer a full-service treatment that includes massage in any area you require.”

It’s clear he know exactly where I’ll be hurting and is currently picturing those tender areas.

“Hmm …” I steal one of his fries. “How convenient.”

“We aim to please.” He waggles his brows at me. There’s a lightness to him now, his clear green eyes bright, his expression open and relaxed. With his easy grin and soft, brown hair matted and a little sweaty from the helmet, he’s almost boyish and oh so pretty. My brain is crying out, “Can we keep him? Please?”

Which is more than a little scary. Life doesn’t always work the way we want it to. People leave. People don’t love back with the same intensity. Doesn’t matter how hard you hold on; if someone wants to go, they’ll find a way. And it hurts every time. But with John? I’m afraid he’ll eventually go and take the sun with him.

“Hey,” he says softly, cutting into my racing thoughts. When I meet his gaze, he cups my cheeks and leans in. His kiss is slow and easy but tinged with heat, as though he’s pacing himself and enjoying the twist of anticipation.

We’ve been eating burgers and fries, but I don’t taste that; I taste him, like honey on my tongue. He’s the best damn kisser I’ve ever met—a little greedy, a little dirty, and all of it sweet. He cups my cheeks like I’m utterly breakable. He moves his mouth over mine like I’m the best thing he’s ever felt.

When he pulls away, I’m light-headed with want. “What was that for?”

“Because I can.” A kiss. “Because your mouth drives me mad.” Another kiss. “Because you’re so damn pretty, I can’t stop myself.” He pulls back to meet my eyes. The rough edge of his thumb glides along the curve of my jaw. “Take your pick. They’re all true.”

“You’re really good at this wooing thing, you know that?”

He touches the corner of my mouth like he can’t help himself. “I didn’t. But it’s good to hear.”

We’re facing each other, my knees tucked between the V of his thighs. And he hasn’t stopped touching me. Little caresses along my neck and shoulders, a gentle tug of my hair. Such simple touches. I feel each one in my heart, between my thighs. It’s never been like this for me. I don’t get giddy. I don’t get attached. I don’t fall.

I’m doing all of those things with alarming speed. Over a guy who is just as ignorant of love as I am. John leans in and nips my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine. All my silent worries fly out the door. It feels too good being here with him to protest.