Throttled (Wild Riders #1)(19)
“My place or yours?” he asked, reaching over to grab my hand.
“Yours is good,” I smiled, knowing that deep down I was making the right call by leaving with Beau.
Reid had a way of clouding my judgment, and even if there was some merit to the feelings I was having about him, it wasn’t right. Beau drew my hand up to his mouth and pressed a chaste kiss across my knuckles reminding me why I was with him. He was sweet to me. He always had been. And, more importantly, he wanted to be with me for more than just a trip down memory lane. Reid may have said he’d thought about me over the past few years, but it didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t been around.
*
The rumble of dirt bike motors still made my pulse speed up and I wasn’t even the one racing them. Just being at the track made me feel like I was a part of it though. A part of the excitement. A part of the thrill. Sometimes I took pictures. Sometimes I just watched in awe of the athletes manipulating metal and rubber across the dirt. There was nothing sexier than a man on his bike, even all covered up with a helmet and riding gear. I knew the way his forearms flexed as he revved his bike and gripped the handles, and the way his thighs squeezed the bike tight as he took a turn.
I sighed and took in a deep breath trying not to look like I was about to go into heat. It wasn’t just any guy on a bike that did it for me either. One in particular was leading the pack on the final lap. Every other guy was trying to catch the one with TRAVERS on the back of his jersey.
I wanted to hate him. I wanted to leave that race and not care about watching him finish, but it felt like my feet were stuck in the mud. I was a slave to the race and rider. I always had been when it came to watching him. It was like watching someone do exactly what they were put on this earth to do. Reid Travers was made to ride motocross and I was made to be his number one fan. Even history couldn’t change that fact.
When the checkered flag flew and he took his victory lap—pulling off his goggles so he could stare out at the crowd—his piercing brown eyes found me and held onto me as he rode over to where I was standing.
“You came?” he said when he pulled of his helmet.
Not yet. The dirty thought that ran through my head resulted in my cheeks turning five shades of pink before settling on a deep red.
“I wanted to see you ride again,” I confessed. The crowd was starting to clear the stands and a few of the fans were nearing us. They’d want photos and autographs so I was sure our conversation was about to be over. “Good job.”
“Thanks, Shutterbug,” he said, that boyish charm he had that worked on me all those years ago, still ever present. The cheers and calls of his name were closing in on us. The faceless people that wanted to be near him. I understood the draw.
“Hop on,” he said as he slipped his hand through his helmet to pull it off and gave me a wicked grin. Without hesitation I did as I was told. All of the arguing from the night before had worn me down. I didn’t want to talk about the past anymore. I just wanted to ride on the back of his bike again. I wanted to wrap my arms around his body and feel the wind through my hair as he took me far away from the hordes of people that wanted a piece of him.
As he drove us toward the back of the track, back to the rows of trailers where the riders and their teams settled in for the weekend, everyone seemed to vanish. It was just us on his bike, the way it used to be. Back when we were happy and in love. Nostalgia got the best of me as I rose up on the seat and pressed my lips to the back of his neck—the salty taste of his sweat hitting all my senses as I flicked my tongue against his skin, instantly making me hum with desire.
I couldn’t hear his words as he raced the bike between two trailers and out of the way of prying eyes, but I heard him loud and clear when he shut the bike off. He took off his chest protector and gloves, and threw them on the ground.
“Come here,” he said, tugging my arm and the rest of me around his body until I was seated facing him. The bottoms of my thighs resting on the tops of his as I wrapped my legs around his body. I looped my arms around his neck to steady myself. “You put your lips on me,” he said with a smirk. “You just started something. You know that, right?”
“I know,” I acknowledged, wanting whatever it was he was going to do.
“My turn now,” he growled. I had a fleeting moment of protest before he crushed his mouth to mine and once again reminded me of exactly why I loved riding on his bike. He balanced us with his feet on the ground, but his hands had other plans. One pushed my hair to the side and settled on the back of my neck as the other tugged down the front of the white tank top I was wearing.
I cried out when he bit down on my bottom lip and pinched my nipple between his fingers.
“I knew you couldn’t resist me,” he said, dropping his mouth to my breast. “I knew that you’d come back to me.” His tongue lashed against my skin. “Fuck. I want you so bad.”
“I want you too,” I told him, leaning back on to the handlebars to give him better access to my body. The slow way he dragged his tongue between my breasts should have been a warning of what he was planning to do next. I didn’t care what he did as long as he kept on touching me. His rough fingertips grazed my skin as he unfastened my shorts, and again as he slipped his hand down the front of them.
“What do you want me to do, baby?” he asked, his fingers slicking through my folds and eliciting a moan mixed with a plea for release. “You want me to remind you how good I can make you feel? I know you love it when I touch you.”