Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(42)

The chauffeur exits the car and comes around it to open the passenger door. Brandon steps out and then grabs my hand to help me out. He asks the driver to drop off our luggage at the hotel and hands him a generous tip.

Holding my hand, he leads me inside the car rental place.

“Zoey, have you ever ridden a bike?”

Jesus. We’re going to bike into Cannes? Pedal down some scenic path along the Mediterranean? Oh shit. It’s like a sixteen-mile ride. I don’t know if I’m up for that. Brandon breaks into my mini panic attack.

“Answer me, Zoey. Yes or no?”

My hand grows clammy in his. I gulp. “Yes. I had a two-wheeler.”

Brandon bursts into hysterical laughter. “Oh, Zoey, Zoey, Zoey. You’re too f*cking adorable.”

“Are you mocking me?”

Still roaring with laughter, Brandon marches us up to the rental counter.

Well, na?ve me is in for a big surprise. Fifteen short minutes later, my big butt’s on a bike all right. A sleek violet Ducati Monster Bike—a muscular, coiled, ready for action, sexy beast—just like Brandon. My thighs clench the back seat and my arms clutch his waist as we weave in and out of the insane traffic along the Mediterranean.

“Brandon, you’re going to get us killed!” I shriek, holding on to him for dear life.

“Zoey, there’s no need to shout. I can hear you just fine.”

The clarity of his voice inside my helmet is shocking. “There’s a microphone in here?”

“Yup. Now chill and enjoy the ride.”

“But, Brandon. Why couldn’t you just rent a car?”

“Because this is much faster. Easy to park. And way more fun. Plus with these tinted helmets, no one will recognize us, including the paparazzi.”

He makes good points. Especially the last one. Ahead of us, an accident is cleared from the road and the bumper-to-bumper traffic eases up.

“Hold on tight.” Brandon squeezes the throttle.

V-room! On my next breath, we’re zooming down the scenic N98 at over a hundred miles per hour. My heart’s racing at about the same speed. I try not to scream since he can hear me. Instead, I lean in and cling to him, so tightly I can feel the planes and angles of his taut six-pack beneath his sinfully sexy jacket.

The speed is not the only thing that’s driving me to squeal. The vibration of the roaring motor is stimulating my clit. And the glorious sensation between my thighs is compounded by the fact that my mound’s rubbing against his gorgeous ass. Wetness mixes with sparks of pure bliss.

“Are you enjoying the ride now?” I hear him ask.

“Oh yes!” I say breathlessly. The warm air whips under my clothes, and the delicious sensation between my legs permeates every cell. And the truth is I’m finally relaxed enough to soak in the orgasmic view.

I’m blown away by the scenery. It’s spectacular. On one side of the dusk-lit road, the cerulean Mediterranean laps the rock-filled shoreline while on the other, pastel-colored villas dot flowering hills. It kind of reminds me of Malibu, but it’s ten times more beautiful. For a brief minute, I work up the courage to lift my visor with one hand and inhale deeply through my nose. The air smells divine. A heady blend of lavender and the sea mixes with the intoxicating scent of Brandon’s leather jacket.

Brandon expertly maneuvers the sleek motorcycle as if he were born to ride it. He removes one of his hands from the handlebar and slips it under his helmet. A sudden blast of techno music fills my ears—stuff I would never listen to at home, but I like it. It feels right. Makes me exhilarated.

“Are you okay?” Brandon shouts above the thudding music.

“More than okay,” I shout back. I feel like I’m stoned. On a high. I truly can’t believe I’m here in the South of France with Brandon Taylor. The hottest man on the planet. Attending the gala world premiere of the season finale of Kurt Kussler. Pinch me again. No, don’t bother.

“Do you like this bike?”

“I love it! Does it shoot missiles and lasers?” Seriously, it’s the Aston Martin of motorcycles, and in my head, I imagine Brandon as James Bond driving a decked out one.

Brandon laughs. “No. But maybe the one I’m going to buy will. I need to protect you.”

A shudder runs through me. For the first time in days, I think about Donatelli. There’s no way he can be anywhere here in France. I quickly shove his ugly face to the back of mind and refocus my attention on Brandon.

“You’re really going to buy a Ducati?”


“Yup.”

“You’re going to have to annex your garage.”

“Nah. I’m going to get rid of the Lambo. Been there, done that.”

I wish he would dump the Hummer. The memory of driving the monster flashes into my head. Not. Good. I’ve lost count of how many times I crashed it. I sure as hell hope Brandon doesn’t make me drive this beast with him on the back seat.

As if reading my mind, he gives my thigh a little squeeze. “Don’t worry, Zo. You’re never going to touch this baby.”

I mentally sigh with relief and go back to enjoying my Bond-girl ride. Along the way, Brandon points out several sights, including Nice’s iconic Negresco Hotel, and later on, Gregory Peck’s former majestic villa, and as we enter Cannes, a sign saying: “Cannes: Sister City to Beverly Hills.” There’s one just like it on Santa Monica Boulevard; I’ve passed it countless times.