Page 14 of Make Me Mean It

There has to be a correct way to do it. I’ve seen people get on motorbikes before, but apparently I’ve never paid enough attention to remember which foot goes where or how I’m supposed to swing my leg over without either kicking Theo in the head or dropping the bike on both of us.

“Fucking hell,” Theo murmurs.

Before I can ask what his problem is, his fingers close around my wrist and he pulls my hand forward, planting it firmly against his shoulder.

I pull back, but Theo’s grip tightens around my wrist, keeping my hand exactly where he put it.

“Stop overthinking everything,” he says firmly.

My mouth opens, ready to argue, but every response I come up with dies before it reaches my tongue because, infuriatingly, he has a point.

I curl my fingers into his shoulder instead, pressing my palm more firmly against the solid muscle beneath his wet shirt. It gives me enough leverage to climb on without ending up face-first on the pavement, which is far more important than how warm he feels beneath my hand.

Theo gives a quiet hum, the kind you’d use to praise someone for finally following a very simple instruction.

Patronising bastard.

Except the low sound sends a shiver over my skin that has absolutely nothing to do with the cold, raising the fine hairs along my arms and making my fingers press deeper into his shoulder.

I use his shoulder to steady myself and swing my leg over, managing to get onto the bike with slightly more dignity than I expected. It’s only when I settle behind him that I realise exactly how little room there is, my chest pressing straight into the warmth of his back through two layers of rain-soaked clothing.

I shift backwards, gaining maybe an inch before the edge of the seat stops me. Not that it matters. There’s hardly a way to sit on the back of a motorbike without touching the person in front of you, and the fact that the person in front of me happens to be Theo shouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.

Theo reaches behind him and taps my arm before kicking the engine properly to life. The vibration rolls up through the bike beneath me, pulling every muscle in my body taut while I stare at the broad expanse of his back and realise what the tap was supposed to mean.

Holding on would probably be sensible, considering I’d rather not end up thrown onto the road the first time he takes a corner, but knowing that doesn’t make me any quicker to actually do it.

I hesitate long enough to annoy myself before sliding my arms around his stomach, keeping my grip loose and leaving what little space I can between us. There’s holding on, and then there’s clinging to him, and I have absolutely no intention of doing the latter.

“You’re gonna want to hold tighter than that,” Theo chuckles, flicking his visor down and revving the engine.

“I’m good,” I grit out.

My heart is beating hard enough that I can feel it against my ribs, but that has significantly more to do with sitting on a machine capable of launching me down the road at an obscene speed than it does with Theo.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs.

The bike shoots forward, my stomach dropping, my useless grip slips and my body pitches backwards with nothing to stop me going straight off the fucking thing.

Theo’s arm comes down over mine, pinning it firmly against his stomach and hauling me back into him before I can disappear onto the road behind us. I scramble forward, abandoning any pretence of keeping my distance, and his chuckle vibrates beneath my chest the moment I’m safely pressed against his back again.

Heat floods my face.

The bike moves beneath us, forcing me to follow every shift of Theo’s body, and it takes embarrassingly little time for the warmth of him to start seeping through my soaked clothes. After twenty minutes of rain and cold fabric stuck to my skin, I should probably hate being pressed this firmly against another person, but instead I find myself settling closer, stealing whatever heat I can get from him.

Theo hums again, quieter this time, the sound vibrating through his back and straight into my chest.

His hand drops onto my knee, my breath catching when his palm settles over it, thumb brushing across the fabric, once and then again.

I stare down at his hand, my stomach pulling strangely with every slow pass. It’s just his hand on my knee, so insignificant that it shouldn’t have every nerve in my body fixed on the place he’s touching me.

I swallow and drag my eyes back to the road, wrapping my arms more firmly around his middle when the bike shifts beneath us, but it makes absolutely no difference.

His thumb is still moving, and I can still feel every pass.