Page 14

There's a knock on the door.

My heart jumps into my throat. I cross the room in three steps and pull open the door. Angel is standing there in jeans, boots, and a plain black T-shirt that shows off his tattooed forearms. His hair is still military-short, his blue eyes still sharp, and he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth looking at.

"Morning," he says, and his voice is lower than I remember, rougher.

"Hi," I manage, and I sound breathless.

His gaze drops to the cut I'm wearing, lingering there for just a moment before returning to my face.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Starving."

"Good. Come on."

I grab my backpack and lock the door behind me, following him down the stairs and out into the parking lot. His motorcycle is parked near the entrance, black, chrome and somehow even more intimidating in daylight.

"You ever been on a bike before?" he asks.

"No."

"It's easy. Just hold on to me and lean when I lean. Don't fight the movement." He swings his leg over and settles onto the seat, then looks back at me. "Come here."

I step closer, and he holds out his hand. I take it, and his grip is warm and calloused as he helps me climb up behind him.

"Arms around my waist," he says.

I wrap my arms around him, and oh God, he's all muscle beneath the thin cotton of his T-shirt. My thighs press against his hips, my chest against his back, and I can’t help but notice every point of contact between us.

"Tighter," he says. "You gotta hold on tighter than that or you'll slide off when I turn."

I squeeze, pressing myself fully against him, and I feel his abdomen tense beneath my hands. The engine roars to life beneath us, vibrating through my entire body, and I suck in a sharp breath.

"You good?" Angel calls over his shoulder.

"I think so," I say, even though I'm terrified and completely out of my depth.

He pulls out of the parking lot slowly, giving me time to adjust to the movement. The bike tilts slightly as we turn onto the main road, and I lean with him, following his body's lead.

"That's it," he says, and I can hear the approval in his voice even over the engine. "You're a natural."

The world narrows to the wind in my hair, the rumble of the engine and the feeling of Angel's body moving beneath my hands. Every shift of his weight, every adjustment of his grip on the handlebars, I feel all of it.

His heat bleeds through his shirt and into my palms. His back muscles flex when he leans into the next turn, and I follow without thinking, trusting him completely.

We ride through downtown Millhaven, past shops just opening for the day, past people walking dogs and carrying coffee cups. A few of them wave at Angel, and he lifts two fingers off the handlebars in acknowledgment.

"You know everyone in this town?" I call over the wind.

"Most of them," he calls back. "Small place. Word gets around."

"Does word get around about prospects giving their cuts to random girls?"

I feel more than hear his laugh, a rumble in his chest that vibrates against mine.

"Probably already has," he says.

"Is that bad?"