Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
His grin is quick and pleased.
Kiss me again. Kiss me forever.
I take a deep breath. Then another, because one isn’t enough to clear my head. “Lead on.”
He chuckles, seeing right through my bravado. “It’ll be fun. But if you hate it, tell me, and we’ll go right home.”
I follow him to the motorcycle. “I’m not going to hate it. I might scream a lot, though.”
Pure sweetness shines in his smile as he picks up a helmet and checks the straps. The helmet is midnight blue with stars painted over it, and when he turns it in his hands, I see my name painted in glittery silver across the side.
“You had a helmet made for me?” I ask, gaping at him. It’s cheesy and flashy and utterly perfect.
“Of course I did.” He ducks his head, peering at my face as he helps me put the helmet on. “You need the proper equipment.”
I stand still and let him adjust the straps. Little flutters of pleasure race over me every time his fingers brush my skin.
Satisfied, John straightens. “Now, there’s a mic in the helmet so we can talk to each other. But I’m going to concentrate on getting us out of the city first.”
“How very high tech,” I say, the flutters shifting to raw nerves. Given the fact that I love speed, I shouldn’t be nervous at all. And maybe it’s more that I want to enjoy this with John. I want him to love what I have planned for my part of the day too.
I let all of that go and follow John to the motorcycle. He gives me a wide grin and then puts on his helmet. And I burst out laughing. His helmet is sleek and black, and on the side of it, in glittering gold, are the words “Stella’s Ride.”
“Your chariot,” he says, still grinning and holding out his hand.
“Impressive.” The bike looks like a cross between vintage and new, almost steampunk. The paint is matte black with bronze accents. At this point, I’m more interested in the nicely padded seat.
John runs a hand over the edge of it. “This is a limited-edition Ducati Italia Scrambler. I have a number of different bikes, dual sport, touring, a few racers.” His lips twitch wryly. “I used to drive an awesome Harley Fat Boy, but I loaned it to Killian, and the asshat drove it into Libby’s lawn. Poor baby hasn’t been the same since.”
“Isn’t that how they met?” I vaguely recall reading about Killian and Libby’s love affair and how he’d crashed on her lawn.
“Yeah.” John shakes his head, but he’s clearly amused. “Since, he’s been a smitten kitten, so I can’t begrudge him too much. Ah, well, live and learn.” John pats the seat. “Let’s put this honey to the test, eh?”
What I didn’t realize about riding a motorcycle is that it vibrates, a lot. Right against my crotch. Combine that with pressing up against John’s lean, hard body, my arms wrapped around his waist, and I’m more than a little distracted by the time we finally escape Manhattan and head for Long Island.
As soon as we’re in the clear, John lets the Ducati loose. I squeal and laugh. It’s like flying. Only with the benefit of being able to hold onto John’s warmth.
Over the helmet speakers, I hear his voice. “Let me know if you’re scared or want to pull over. Okay, Button?”
“Punch it, rocker boy.”
He laughs, going faster. I squeeze him for the sheer joy of it.
The Ducati eats up the road. John plays music through the helmets, his taste eclectic but all of it fast-paced for the ride. When Prince’s “Raspberry Beret” comes on, I throw up my hands to feel the air.
“How you holding up?” John asks when we stop at a burger joint a while later.
I swallow down a bite of melty cheeseburger before answering. “Okay. But I’m beginning to suspect I’ll be sore later.” His motorcycle might be fast and powerful, but I feel every bump on the road—intimately.
John turns his barstool to face me, then grabs a few fries. “Not to worry, ma’am. Here at John’s Bitchin’ Rides, we offer a full-service treatment that includes massage in any area you require.”
It’s clear he know exactly where I’ll be hurting and is currently picturing those tender areas.
“Hmm …” I steal one of his fries. “How convenient.”
“We aim to please.” He waggles his brows at me. There’s a lightness to him now, his clear green eyes bright, his expression open and relaxed. With his easy grin and soft, brown hair matted and a little sweaty from the helmet, he’s almost boyish and oh so pretty. My brain is crying out, “Can we keep him? Please?”
Which is more than a little scary. Life doesn’t always work the way we want it to. People leave. People don’t love back with the same intensity. Doesn’t matter how hard you hold on; if someone wants to go, they’ll find a way. And it hurts every time. But with John? I’m afraid he’ll eventually go and take the sun with him.