If I’m not careful, I’m going to have a repeat performance, too. With Taylor. I need to stay focused, protect her, figure out who killed Oscar Stanley and move on. End of story.
Unfortunately, my resolve is on seriously shaky legs.
Taylor returns to the coffee maker with the half-empty pot and I lean back to watch her walk. Because sweet Jesus, who sold her those tight pants? She might as well be naked. I can see the outline of her thong through the gray nylon. I have to grit my teeth against the urge to follow her into the kitchen and yank those buns up into my lap. Where they belong.
“You ready to go?” she asks, looking through her purse. Totally unaware that she’s making me hard and doing strange things inside my chest at the same time.
“Yeah.” I shove away from the table and stand. “Just the library, right, Taylor?”
She blinks at me innocently. “Yes. Just the library.”
Bullshit.
But we’re going to see how this plays out. If I don’t take her into town, she’ll simply go on her own. There’s no way I’ll get any work done if I’m worrying about her safety. “You good to take my bike?” I ask on my way to the door. When she doesn’t answer, I turn back around with my hand on the knob. “Half pint.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
I cross my arms and lean back against the entrance. “What has you worried?”
“Crashing.” She is wringing her purse in her hands. “There is no hard outer shell on a motorcycle, Myles. Or airbags.”
“I’m aware of that, Taylor.”
“But I am trying to be braver.” She comes toward me like a woman walking a plank, seconds from plunging into alligator-infested waters. “I suppose that means chancing death once in a while, right?”
Taylor talking about her own potential death is going to bring my breakfast back up. “You are never in danger if I’m with you,” I say, caught off guard by my own confidence. Where is that coming from? Her? Because of what she said on the beach when she didn’t know I was listening?
Now she blinks at me. “I know I’m safe with you. It’s other people on the road I’m worried about.” My pulse beats faster as she crosses the room toward me. “I trust you.”
“Hmm.” I can’t look at her. Not with warmth spreading from my throat down to my stomach. “I guess I like that.”
“Me trusting you?”
I grunt. Nod, in case the grunt didn’t make my answer clear.
And she slips her hand into mine.
It feels so good, I almost pull away. Hand holding is not part of the job.
None of this is part of the job.
Yet here I am, leading her to my bike by the hand like a doting boyfriend. Putting my helmet on her head gently and helping her onto the rear of the seat. She looks so fragile on the extra-large piece of machinery that sweat starts to bead on my hairline. I swear to God if another car comes within ten feet of us, I’m going to go fucking ballistic. Why did I suggest we take the bike? Is it too late to drive the car?
“I’m starting to get excited now,” she says, smiling at me through the helmet. “Should I just hold on to my purse?”
“No.” I take it out of her hands and stow it in one of the saddlebags. “You’ll be holding on to me.”
“Roger that.”
When I straddle the bike and her arms circle my waist, face pressing into the back of my shoulder, so many things happen to my body at once. My muscles tense with purpose. Protectiveness crams into my midsection. My tongue turns thick in my mouth, skin clammy in some places, hot in others. To say nothing of my swollen cock, which has been in perpetual misery for so many consecutive days that I’m beginning to get used to the pain. Mostly, though, it’s the organ firing in my chest. Pumping like crazy. Somehow I know I’ll never have another woman on the back of my bike besides Taylor. She’s the last.
No matter what happens.
With that uncomfortable thought hanging in the air, I squeeze the clutch lever and start the bike, slowly pulling onto the road, exhaling jaggedly at the way her thighs tighten on either side of my hips, arms cinching around me like a belt. I go slow. Slower than the speed limit. Every pothole and road sign is a potential threat.
“Faster,” she calls over the wind, squeezing me. Even though gunning the engine makes me feel like I’m going to be sick, I do it anyway, because I’m proud of her. For being brave. Facing her fear. Trusting me to do it with her. And hell, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the way she clings to me, her warm pussy against the small of my back. Her sexy, thong-clad butt is perched on the rumbling engine of my bike and that makes me hungry. Makes me think of hot, sweaty sex. Makes me think of us in bed, instead, while she screams faster in my ear. Why won’t I just beat off and get rid of some of this pressure between my legs? Just this morning, I returned to my motel room to shower and change. Could have worked out some frustration with my hand, but I couldn’t do it, despite my dick being harder than a two-by-four. My body knows nothing is going to come close to the real thing. Taylor.