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He grunts, his fingertips digging into my ass, then there are more stomping footsteps before I’m mounted onto the rain-slick seat of an enormous motorcycle and a helmet is popped onto my head. My soaking hair masks my eyes as I splutter and try to scrape the strands away so I can see what the heck is going on.
“You’re down. Now, hold on.”
A crack of thunder above my head makes me wince and scream. My shoulders hunch as my head tries to turtle into my chest. I hate storms. I always have. I usually hide in the bathroom or in the kitchen at the restaurant whenever there is lightning or thunder.
My protests stall as Chance swings one long leg over the bike, settling in front of me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the white flashes in the black sky.
“Hold on.” His thick voice rumbles through the rain and thunder, strong hands tugging at mine, wrapping them around his slick center as I thread my fingers together, pressing my cheek into the hard, bare muscle of his back.
“Where are we going?” I half yell as his left leg jerks upward, then down, and the bike roars to life.
“Somewhere safe,” he answers, and against all logic, I believe him.
The next second, I’m hurtling through the rain and darkness with a stranger, but somehow he feels like a port in this storm. I’m comforted by the feel of him against me, even as the storm rages around us and I wonder how he can see anything or keep the bike steady with the force of the wind coming off the ocean.
I have no idea how long we ride like that, with me clinging to him as he barrels through the chaotic pitch-black night.
I manage to peek through the rain, and the longer we ride, the darker it gets. The road turns from pavement to dirt. Mud splatters up around us, clinging to his torso and my arms as we hit more and more bumps, the bike slipping and spinning.
There are no more lights. No more homes or businesses along the route.
I yelp against the hardness of Chance’s back, my butt bouncing off the seat as the bike rumbles over more bumps in the muddy road, my arms a tight noose around his mid-section, even as a warmth gathers in my center and my heart does a tap dance inside my chest.
It’s fear, but it’s something else as well.
The bike races up a steep incline, forcing me to lean harder into his back as I think of his unusual dark eyes with their hint of red. They remind me of my guilty pleasure, the Twilight movies. I like to watch them when I’m exhausted and unable to sleep. There is something comforting about knowing how things will work out. Some people like the surprise of a new book or a movie, but I much prefer the security of going on an adventure with a sure and happy outcome.
Unlike what’s happening right now.
For some reason I feel like I know this man, but every logical molecule in my body is telling me otherwise.
He’s thick and hard and delicious, sure. That works great in a movie or a magazine, but in real life? Plenty of dangerous men are just as sexy, but somehow, right now, none of that matters.
I feel like a child behind him. My petite, four foot eleven and a half inches makes me feel snack-sized compared to his lumbering, towering presence. He’s bigger than either of my brothers, and that’s saying something.
My thighs are spread wide, the tendons at their apex straining as I straddle his hips, and there’s an unyielding warmth still growing down deep in my center.
I hear the bike downshift, feel the movement of Chance’s legs as he works the gears, and we start to slow down. The rain is in sheets now. I hear the angry ocean to my left and see the white-capped waves as a white flash of lightning fills the sky.
The outline of a house comes into view in front of us, as Chance eases the bike into an overhang next to a structure obscured by trees and plants and the darkness of the night. His feet splash to the wet ground, steadying the bike as he brings it to a stop.
“Come on.” He reaches around and grabs me around the waist, not waiting for me to comply with his order before mounting me on his hip like a child and barreling up a few steps, across a porch, then through a doorway as the weight of the helmet bobbles on my head.
Everything about this is reckless. Even more so when he settles my feet to the floor, pops the helmet from my head, then moves around the room, lighting a few candles that throw out the barest low light.
His body is soaking wet and splattered with mud, water dripping from his dark hair into the valleys and cuts of his chest and abs. Words and dark, intricate ink decorate his chest and down his arms. His jeans are drenched and clinging to every ridge and shape of what God gave him.
“Stay here. I’ll go turn on the generator. The power is flaky here, even in good weather. With this wind…might not be back on for days.”
He disappears through a neat kitchen and I hear the sound of a door opening, then a gust of wind flows through the house, making me shiver as I stand dripping onto the rough stone floor, my arms clutching around my center.
I take in the details of the open space in the low, flickering glow. This place is deceptively large.
It’s open and decorated in clean lines and tasteful artwork. What looks like bamboo timbers make sort of dividers between a living room type space, then a long rough table surrounded by mismatched chairs and a kitchen.
Holy moly, the kitchen.
It rivals mine at home, and I put a year of planning into it and another year of having it built. He’s got gleaming stainless appliances. Top dollar, with an expanse of an island topped with what looks like a finished mahogany butcher block.
