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I’m perched on the back of Liam’s black Aprilia RSV4 with cherry-red rims. High speed tops out at over two hundred miles per hour. She’s a beauty.
But it’s the bad-boy driver in a black leather jacket who steals the show. My arms are cinched around his waist. The wind whips at us, crisp smells of ginger, orange peel, and nutmeg swirling on the breeze. And of course, Liam’s intoxicating cedarwood and cloves fireside-lodge fragrance.
This is exactly what I needed after finalizing plans for tomorrow night with Dustin Barclay—a sensible evening that will paralyze a part of my soul.
That’s a bit melodramatic. I’m just not feeling it.
But this thrilling jolt is reward enough. The tingling spark began the second Liam slid my helmet on, insisting that he fasten it properly. He looked me over with a heavy inhale that had my stomach somersaulting. All before I even mounted the bike.
Most of the drive, he’s kept a protective hand clasped on to my arms, which is a level of exhilarating comfort I haven’t experienced before. I keep reminding myself how fleeting this is.
Just a rush to recall during a stuffy cocktail party.
There’s nothing worse than forgetting the rules halfway through a match. So, clarity is vital.
Rule number one: This is nothing more than a Sunday-brunch secret. The drug that will someday propel me through trite gossip with a pearl-clutching socialite. The reason I’ll be able to smile brightly—my transient affair with a sexy, sculpted genius from the underworld.
My grip tightens on his hard abs as the bike veers into a bend, slanting so far sideways that I let out a whoop. Liam’s back shakes against my chest with what I assume is laughter before he squeezes my arm.
In a blink, we’re here. He parks on the side of the barn, out of the way, and Rex and the guys pull in behind us. Once the engine is off, I boost my leg over the seat, using his shoulders to brace myself. Liam follows me off and immediately reaches for my helmet strap, silently freeing me. My hair is a staticky mess, so I sweep it into a fresh ponytail.
“You make a beautiful backpack, Carver.” His index finger taps my nose, and I am thoroughly thrown off by the sweetly innocent gesture.
“Thanks.” I smile—the goofy kind that teenage girls sport right before they giggle at the heartthrob who complimented them.
Showing all my cards.
Regrouping, I glance at the arena and back to him while fixing the strap on my camera bag. “Coming in with me?”
“Oh, yeah. Let’s see what you got, Ace.” He winks, and those hazels rake over my curves with a stark hunger that has me swallowing my own carnal cravings. Setting our helmets on the bike, he lifts the camera bag off my shoulder and slips it onto his.
All righty then. This feels very boyfriend-ish.
As if he wants to deepen that sentiment, he yanks on my ponytail on our way toward the indoor arena, like we’re in ninth grade. Although no one in high school had suave come-ons like his.
As he glides his hand across my lower back, his voice is all husky and come-hither. “You got your wish, snuggling up to me without talking. For the record, I enjoy no-talking activities too. Well, not no-talking because there’s always a need for some direction and praise. And certainly a few orders.”
I stop and stare at him, inwardly heated at both his suggestiveness and his flirty smirk, but unwilling to reveal any of that. “Is there a point to this double-entendre rambling, Graves?”
“A point? Yeah.” He bends down, lips skimming the shell of my ear, fingers caressing my hip. “After I watch how well you ride, I’m going to feed you my”—he clears his throat with a moan, the action laced with wry seduction—“favorite meal. I’m taking you to dinner, if only to irritate the fuck out of you with more of my arrogant bullshit.”
Laughing, I lean into him, my hand resting on his chiseled pecs and racing heart, my voice a sultry purr. “For the record, I prefer praise over the cocky shit. Most of the time. And while I’d rather not have to, I’m not opposed to giving direction to a man who struggles with finding his way. But to be perfectly transparent, I always have demands.”
Our gazes crash together like a tumultuous breaker, the foamy roar washing over me. Sparring with him is the most alive I’ve felt in a long time, but I have to go. He seems to understand that because his mouth blooms into a grin that sneaks through his golden scruff, his eyes crinkling deliciously, his subtle dimple causing my insides to quiver as he dusts his thumb across my cheekbone.
“Better get going, Ace.”
We resume our journey, and I stuff the girlie giddiness to the back of my mind. I can’t afford to lose my edge.
Rule number two: Always keep my head in the game. I cannot allow the suave flirting of the aforementioned sexy genius of the underworld to seduce me into fairy-tale imaginings. It’s nothing but foreplay. Fodder for those future cocktail-party mind escapes.
Today is the foster care program, Thriving Kids. Since Liam and I tarried for a few extra minutes, I’m no longer early. The kids and foster parents are pouring in already. I snatch my camera bag back and start to scurry toward Jeremy. We settled into a good rhythm last week, so today should run smoothly.
I glance back at Liam, whose brows are scrunched together at the organized chaos ensuing—neighing horses, cheering kids, therapists with paint—and laugh. It’s probably overwhelming. “It’ll settle down soon.”
He nods, but doesn’t respond. Maybe he’s stressed about security. I don’t have time to deal with that, but Rex will alleviate any concerns.
“I have to get started. Feel free to join in,” I say, hoping he will. “Ty did last time, and the kids loved it. Almost as much as Ty.” The memory of Ty painting a horse has me grinning.
