I swallow and internally shake off that flutter that flickers in my belly. Or maybe it was between my legs, I can’t really tell with the reverberations of the bike rattling through me too.
Simon goes back into the garage and brings with him two black helmets to match his blacked-out bike. “Here, put this on.”
“Really? You’re going to make me wear this?”
He glares at me. “We can be reckless, love, but your safety is still my utmost concern.”
I groan and slide the thing over my head. “Fine.” I fumble with the little straps, unsure how to fasten them the way he does his.
Simon swats my frantic fingers away. “Allow me.” In a quick second, he’s secured the thing on my head, the heat from his touch lingering after it’s gone.
“Thanks,” I say loud enough for him to hear.
He gives me a thumbs up but then pushes something on the front of his helmet, then reaches to do the same to mine. A crackle comes through the inside of my helmet followed by his voice. “Save the screaming for later, love.”
“You wish,” I say with a grin through whatever microphone is installed in these things.
Simon tugs down the garage door, letting the thing slam shut. He throws his leg over the bike with ease and holds his hand out to me. “You ready?”
I slide my palm into his, step onto one of the foot pegs, and climb onto the back. Unsure of what the fuck I’m supposed to do with my hands, I keep them to myself.
Simon tilts his head slightly back toward me. “You’re going to want to hold on tight, love.”
I wrap one arm around his waist, my body pressing up against his.
He does something with his foot, or maybe his hand, I can’t really be sure how these things work, and gives the bike some throttle while we slowly take off. It’s a clutch, or something, I think, that he lets out to make us move. Maybe I can convince him to teach me how to operate this thing so I don’t feel so fucking stupid trying to figure it out. Or I could just accept that I don’t need to knoweverythingand just roll with it. I mean, if we’re going to be stuck together, I’m sure it might come up sooner or later.
Simon moves us through the garage, the vibration of the bike purring like a fucking cat. He stops us at the gate, waits for the thing to open, and then shoots us out onto the street.
The air is a mixture of a warm breeze with a slight chill—perfect conditions for a night ride.
He glides through traffic with much more ease than we do in his car. He’s not exactly a grandma in his Volvo, but on this, it’s like he’s someone else entirely.
We go around a corner at what feelsprobablytoo fast. Naturally, I grip him tighter and lean from the opposite direction of the pavement.
“Lean with the bike, love,” he says through our headsets. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
"Sorry," I tell him, because what else am I supposed to say at potentially almost killing us both for moving in the wrong direction. It's not like I got a passenger manual.
Of all the guys I’ve screwed around with in the past, I’ve never once gotten on the back of any of their motorcycles. I was stupid enough to follow them to their apartments and fuck, I wasn’t going to cross that line of danger even further and get on their bikes. I’m reckless but not completely foolish. And here I am, never having had sex with Simon but playing the role of backpack on his crotch rocket.
“I want to show you something,” Simon tells me before twisting the throttle and weaving around cars. We speed through intersections, maneuver traffic, and get across town quicker than I ever have in my whole life.
I take turns positioning my helmet on the left or right side of him, taking in the view as I can. Buildings blur and people seem so unrecognizable, but all of it is a different kind of beauty. It’s new and fresh and so fucking exhilarating. It’s not exactly the danger I had in mind, but it’s a thrill I didn’t know I needed until I was shooting down Third Street with my hair whipping behind me.
I’ll worry about all the tangles later.
I don’t doubt the guys will be livid when they find out, but they didn’t state specifics about getting on a motorcycle with Simon—and considering Simon insisted on me wearing a helmet, he’s following through with his promise of my safety. No one said we couldn’t have a little fun.
“Aren’t you worried about cops?” I ask Simon.
He chuckles. “Most of them are on the payroll.”
“So, you’re above the law.”
“How else do you think your boyfriends get away with as much as they do?”
“Touché.”