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It was the most bizarrely beautiful machine I’d ever seen.
And for two weeks, almost anytime I went anywhere, the bike appeared. Day or night. Scheduled or not. The helmeted rider was there, and the motorcycle mocked me.
To any normal, sane, single woman, this should have been concerning. But not me.
No, instead, I fantasized as I imagined what the rider looked like. Fantasized about why he was always there. Fantasized about what he wanted to do to me.
I could recognize his frame, but his face had stubbornly and frustratingly remained obscured from my view. I’d had the best time two nights before imagining it with my hand between my thighs, but I yearned to know what he looked like behind the tinted window of his helmet.
Stupid helmet.
I’d never fully seen the driver, and I wasn’t scared, concerned, or ready to phone the police.
I didn’t typically think of myself as foolish, but with this man, I didn’t have the common-sense God gave a goose. No, I was intrigued.
The bike was a thing of beauty, stunning artwork, custom everything, and it screamed total badass. It was sexy as all hell, and my panties got damp, just looking at it.
Biker and bike combined made the total package.
Unconsciously, I nibbled my bottom lip while I considered my options. I felt the bagboys eyes on me and looked up to return his smile as he shoved the trunk lid down. He turned away and pushed the cart back to the store. And I knew, with the slam of my trunk lid, I’d come to a decision.
I was going to move to the other end of the lot and hide. When the biker came out, I’d just have to follow him and see what he was up to. I needed to know more about him. And, much like everything else in my life, I needed it now.
It didn’t take long.
Sitting at the back of the parking lot, wedged between two jacked-up trucks, I was pretty sure that I was hidden from sight. I watched the tall man with a look that screamed, “Trouble!” come out of the store, gripping a big bottle of water.
He had on a tight tee showing off his impressive muscles and a pair of worn dark wash jeans. His motorcycle boots were black and looked heavy. The leather cuff he wore on his left hand did not detract from his appeal and instead complimented the leather vest he wore. And when he twisted off the lid and chugged from the water bottle, his throat worked in a way that fired all of my cylinders.
Then I hit gold.
That.
Face.
It was one of romance novels.
It was the face of fantasies.
I couldn’t see his eyes from the distance between us, but the square jaw, facial hair, and stern look on his face heated my blood. He was perfect. Better than I ever could have imagined, even during my feverish, heated, self-induced, orgasmic solo sessions.
He looked around the parking lot and shook his head when whatever he was looking for wasn’t there. He mouthed the word, “Fuck!” and threw a leg over his bike.
Was it me?
Could it be that my absence had brought about his reaction?
It had to be me.
Right?
I was the one he was following.
I was the one that had moved.
Giddiness washed through me. I could only hope. God knew I was looking for him.
I couldn’t even nail down the exact moment I’d become aware of him, only that I began to recognize the bike and then, after a little watching of my own, the build of the man. He had my full attention, and I was more than intrigued now. I was captivated.
