Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63055 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63055 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Basically, I’m putting my life in this total stranger’s hands.
I take the helmet and swallow.
“Scared, princess?” he sneers. He's wearing a set of dog tags around his neck. Up close, he’s even more beautiful than I initially absorbed. He has ice blue eyes that pop against his tanned skin and rumpled brown hair. His lips have a sensuousness to them, but that’s the only part. All the rest of him is one hundred percent hard muscle. He probably plays defense, and he probably makes the Cave Hills players cry when he hits them.
I snatch the helmet and toss my hair before I pull it on. It’s too big, and I ruin the haughty effect by fumbling with the straps to try to keep the thing on.
To complete the humiliation, Bo steps closer to help me, adjusting the straps until they fit snugly against my chin. His movements are sure and deft, and he completes the action by patting the top of the helmet like I’m a child.
“Aren’t you going to wear one?”
“Nah, then I’d have two for the ride home,” he says, like that minor inconvenience is much worse than getting his skull smashed in. He produces a pair of sunglasses from the side bag and puts them on. He looks right off the set of a movie. Like a bad boy younger version of Chris Hemsworth. Only way dickier.
I know. That’s not a word.
“All set?” He swings a long, thick leg over the seat and looks back. When I gingerly climb on behind him, he gives my wedge sandals a skeptical look. “Normally I wouldn’t allow that kind of footwear on the bike, but I guess you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”
“Nope.”
Uber would’ve been a good choice.
Why in the hell didn’t I Uber this? I was trying to establish this stupid partnership with Winslow. Show some trust to make him trustworthy.
Now look where I am.
About to risk my life on the back of a motorcycle.
He starts the Harley, and the only warning the asshole gives me that he’s going to take off is a look over his shoulder before we lurch.
I bite down a scream and grab his waist in sheer panic. It takes a mile or two before I realize I’m digging my fingers into his skin through the thin t-shirt, but no matter how firmly I tell myself to ease up, I can’t.
So much for playing it cool.
Bo stops at stoplight and turns his head sideways. “You freaking?”
“Nah-o.” The one-syllable word becomes two as I lie through my teeth.
He covers one of my clawing hands. His palm is large and rough. Calloused from hard work or maybe playing football—I don’t know. He tugs my hand around the front of his body, until it reaches his washboard abs.
“Oh—sorry! Was I hurting you?” I don’t normally get flustered by guys. I’m usually the one doing the flustering—especially if we’re talking about high school boys. Being five foot nine by seventh grade made it impossible for me to ignore the effect I have on the opposite sex. But I’m a total disaster in this moment.
I blame it all on the motorcycle. It’s not from the blue eyes or washboard abs.
His chuckle is low and soft. It shouldn’t unexpectedly warm me the way it does. “No chance of that, Legs.”
“Legs? Is that what you’re calling me?”
The light changes, and he takes off again without warning.
I wrap my other arm around his waist, too, so now I’m hugging his back like a freaking koala. Or do they ride on the front? A chimpanzee, then, who has to hold on for dear life while her mama swings from tree to tree.
And then we’re zipping onto the highway that leads to Cave Hills. I don’t know how many miles it takes for my fear to morph into something different. Something warmer and more alive. By the time we’re down the hill, I’m all tingles and awareness, my breath coming in short pants inside the helmet, my hands molded to Bo’s abs. The heat from his body radiating into mine. The motorcycle like a giant vibrator between my legs.
I hate that I even find this scenario a turn-on. Motorcycles aren’t cool. Boys who ride them are redneck and basic.
Except my body doesn’t seem to agree. Or maybe it’s not about the motorcycle. Maybe it’s about the giant baller whose back I’m glued to.
Bo
I purposely scare her because I’m a dick.
I’m a dick, and I fucking love making her scream and cling to me for dear life every time I take off too fast.
I also don’t mind the way it feels having her snug against my back, her slender arms squeezing in on my ribs every time I lean into a turn.
I’m pretty sure I just heard her mutter, you suck, the last time I wove through the lanes of traffic to get ahead.