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I swallow hard, my throat tight. “On your bike?”
“That, too.”
“I’m on my way.”
Chapter Four
He’s sitting astride his bike. I see him as I park my car at the curb and kill the engine.
God. He’s gorgeous. Even better looking in his leather pants and jacket, if possible, than he was in his expensive designer suit.
His grin flashes bright from across the street.
Right. Okay. My palms are sweaty as I grab my purse and step out of my car, hitting the lock button and crossing over to him.
He said he follows through on all his promises, and he did promise not to date me. Not to stay with me. Not to be with me as a boyfriend would.
So why is he back?
As I approach and he towers over me even when sitting on his badass bike, self-consciousness belatedly hits and I tug on the hem of my sweater and smooth down my skirt. I wasn’t planning on anything sexier than watching Arrow on TV for tonight, so my skirt is knee-length, and I have my leather boots on. My hair is pinned to the back of my head with a pencil, and I have no make-up on.
Classy, Layla. Perfect for seducing a millionaire hunk, and… wait, what am I doing? This is the guy who stated upfront he’ll never want a relationship with me.
But aren’t relationships overrated? I think again of mom and dad and their painful divorce as I come to stand right in front of Hawk and shiver.
Maybe I don’t want a relationship, either. As long as I can see this man, inhale his spicy scent. Touch him.
Or maybe I’m going crazy. Lust sure is a powerful drug, and when he lifts a bunch of flowers—roses, I realize dimly—and runs the blossoms over my arm, releasing their scent, it hits me hard.
Roses. Memory of tiny lashes hitting my back, my ass. His fingers touching me. His cock filling me.
A gasp escapes me.
Then he puts a rough hand on my cheek, then slides it to the back of my neck and draws me closer to him, and I’m falling.
Nestled against this thigh, pressed between his warmth and his bike, with his hand cradling my head, I feel high. His warm breath washes over my mouth, smelling of mint and a hint of Scotch.
“I thought,” I try to keep the words in but they come anyway, “that I wouldn’t see you again.”
“I thought that, too,” he whispers, pulling me even closer, his eyes narrowed, “but fuck that. I wanted to see you.”
Me, too, oh God, me too, I think as his mouth covers mine and the kiss turns hot within seconds—his tongue twisting with mine, his teeth biting at my lower lip. He’s eating up my mouth like a starving man, his hand traveling down to my back, hauling me until I’m riding his muscular thigh.
Pleasure zings down my nerve endings, pools low in my belly. I’m in real danger of coming right here, right now, on the street, dry-humping his leg.
This kind of thing keeps happening when I’m around him. Normally I’m not much for public displays, even less for public orgasms.
I pull back, breaking the kiss, and his hand clenches against my back. He blinks, the gray of his eyes gone dark. “Wanna come with me tonight?”
I lick my lips. “And tomorrow?”
“My promise remains the same,” he says, his voice not faltering. The roses are resting in front of him, on the bike, their scent mingling with his and with the fumes of the passing cars. “Nothing has changed.”
Nothing?
But I want this too much. With him. I want him to show me how it can be. I want him filling me, I want to feel his heartbeat slamming against my back, against my chest. I need him in my arms.
So I lift my skirt and climb on the bike behind him, linking my arms around his hard middle. “Let’s go.”
