Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(13)

It pisses me off.

“There’s a party inside, you know,” I tell her roughly, “and it’s for you.” I walk across the concrete floor to reach her side.

“I know,” she mumbles and then spits the cap out. “Rose and Lily shut the door on me when I tried to go to the bathroom with them. And Connor and Lo looked like they wanted to talk about something private too, so I figured I’d let them discuss what they needed to.”

I frown. “Why would your sisters do that?”

“Lily is five years older than me and Rose is seven,” she says with a shrug. “I’m used to being left out. It’s the younger child syndrome.” She sits up and hands me the map.

I scan it quickly.

“It’s for your road trip to California,” she explains. “I marked some places that are supposed to be cool.”

“You also drew a f*cking smiley face over North Dakota.”

“That’s because North Dakota is the happiest state. Everyone knows that.” She grins, brightness in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a while. It’s gorgeous beyond f*cking words. But at night, that light starts to slowly wane. It’s like Daisy Calloway is powered by the sun.

“Says who?” I ask, folding the map and tucking it into my back pocket.

“I read it somewhere,” she says. “I’ve forgotten the source, but I’m sure it was credible.”

“Yeah, says the girl who reads her horoscope every day.”

She mock gasps. “How did you know that? Have you been reading my diary?”

“No, I’ve just been sleeping in your bed.”

“I thought that was some other guy,” she says.

I scrutinize her position on the bike, her legs on either side of the seat, clutched tightly, still backwards. I’ve ridden on the same motorcycle with her before. She does this thing where she rests her hands on my thighs instead of wrapping them around my chest. I always have to grab her wrist when she purposefully nears my cock.

She likes to tease, to see how far she can push me, and I’ve never had a girl play with me like that, with confidence that radiates. It drives me f*cking nuts, and I find myself wanting to be around her even more, seeking those give-and-take moments and her f*cking joy.

But there’s a silent understanding between us. We both know we can’t cross a certain line.

“You’ve let other guys in your bed?” I question with the rise of my brows. Anger burns my muscles as I imagine the losers she’s been with, all f*cking her, all older. Don’t think about it.

“Not lately.” Her oversized sweater snags on the handle behind her, almost flashing me. “Oops.”

My body heats, and the only thing that stops any kind of arousal is the idea of another strange guy getting hard at the sight of her. I don’t want to be one of them.

She adjusts her shirt, and I read the words stitched on her chest: Ooh la la.

I think it’s been about a year since she started choosing clothes with sayings—kind of like her way of talking back to the paparazzi without speaking. It’s cute.

“Have you ridden like this before?” she asks with a playful smile.

“Backwards?”

She nods.

“No. I didn’t want to kill myself the billions of times it’s crossed my mind,” I say dryly.

“I think I could do it,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “But you’d have to be on the bike too, steering.” Her green eyes grow big. “Can we try?”

I don’t dismiss her wild fantasies. Last week, we took the wheels off a skateboard and tried to balance on a sideways trashcan. It was more fun than it f*cking sounds. But this—me on a motorcycle with her facing me—it’s an image that’s too f*cking intimate. I don’t even know if she realizes this.

“My head will knock into yours,” I tell her. “It’s impossible for me to reach the throttle and the brake.”

“You can wrap your arms around me to grab onto the handlebars,” she says. “I can prove that it’ll work.” She scoots up towards the gas can, giving me plenty of room on the seat. “Unless you’re scared.”

My eyes narrow. “You can call me a f*cking coward all you want, sweetheart. I’m not falling for it.” And neither is my dick.

“Then I’ll just try to ride backwards without you present. How’s that?” She’s about to turn her f*cking key in the ignition. I have no doubt she’ll try.

She’s done wilder things in her free time, learning how to whitewater raft and how to fly a plane. I’ve watched her fall off the back of this f*cking motorcycle. I’ve seen her crash into a tree on a black diamond ski slope. And with every daring event, I’ve been there, by her side, carrying her almost every time she’s fallen.

“Fine,” I tell her easily. I near her Ducati, and she stops fiddling with the keys. I swing my leg over and straddle the f*cking seat like I normally would, facing the handlebars. She’s the one who’s all turned around.

Our knees knock together, and I’m satisfied with the fact that I can’t near the handlebars. But she’s not ready to give up. She lifts her legs on top of mine and scoots down towards me. Fuck.

She’s straddling me, her back against the gas can, lying on the motorcycle. I touch the f*cking throttle and brake easily, extending my arms over her, and her chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm, acting like I’m about to push into her. Like this is about to go somewhere it is definitely f*cking not.