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Don’t know what to do with them. With someone who doesn’t feel anything about me, and yet won’t let go.
He gives me a wide grin as I approach his bike, and I can’t read his face.
“Get on,” he says, and I climb up behind him. “Hold on tight.”
Always. He’s a wild ride. Every single time.
I pull on the extra helmet and slip my arms around his waist, let him rev the engine and dive back into traffic. Weave through the city, not really caring where he’s taking me, lost in the feel of his muscled back pressed to my front, his hard abs under my hands.
Just one week apart and I missed this.
Him.
This is bad.
We ride for a long time. He doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind as he drives down avenues and through quiet neighborhoods, and I’m content to cling to him and let the thoughts flow out of my mind, leaving a pleasant numbness behind.
Strangely, he sometimes glances sideways, or over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be following us.
And then I know I’ve been watching too much TV with Dorothy lately. I mean, why would he think we have a tail? What could he possibly have done for such a possibility? The paparazzi rarely, if ever, manage to catch a glimpse of him.
We end up far from the town center, as far as I can tell, and ride through an open gate into an obviously private property.
Trees line the paved driveway. A mansion looms in the distance.
He turns onto a path between trees and bushes, the headlights of the bike the only illumination, and comes to a stop beside a pond with floating water lilies.
He kicks the stand into place and stays there for a long moment. The quiet seeps in. A bird trills in a bush.
It’s not as cold as I expected. There’s a promise of rain in the air, which is heavy with the scent of some aromatic herb and the freshness of the pond.
He takes off his helmet, but he still doesn’t make any other move.
“I wasn’t supposed to meet you,” he whispers, and I wonder for a moment if I imagined the words.
“Hawk?” What does he mean? Meet me today? Or ever?
He shakes his head. “It’s peaceful here.”
Carefully, I slide off the bike and take off my helmet. There’s a wooden bench beside us and I place it there. “Is this place yours?”
“Belongs to an uncle of mine.”
The lights of the bike reflect on the still water of the pond, washing back on us, turning his hair and beard to polished gold.
“Were you really going to let him fuck you?” he asks, finally turning toward me. He climbs off, muscles bunching in his powerful thighs through the soft leather of his black pants. “That guy you were going out with tonight.”
I look away, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Fuck.” He walks a few steps to the edge of the pond, pushes his chin-length hair out of his face.
“You set the rules,” I remind him quietly. “You’re not my boyfriend.”
“Hell, don’t I know it.” He lets his helmet drop to the sodden ground and kicks at the mud. “Son of a bitch. I shouldn’t have called you. Shouldn’t have come. I wish...” He mumbles something that sounds like, “It’s killing me.”
But I probably didn’t hear well. It would make no sense.
He turns and comes toward me, hands fisted at his sides, and I take a step back. He’s never been violent with me before—well, at least not in a non-pleasurable way—but anger sparkles in his gaze.
