For wind.
For the possibility of accidentally flashing half of Maccon City.
But as long as I've got my anti-chafing shorts my dignity will remain intact.
Everything's fine.
Everything is absolutely—okay, it’s not fine.
Because the second I climb onto the motorcycle and wrap my thighs around his hips—I feel something electric sizzle between us.
Holy.
Mother.
Of.
God.
Maybe it’s chemistry.
Or raw animal attraction.
All I know is Ifeelit in my bones.
The bike rumbles beneath us.
His body is hard and warm in front of me.
And when he pulls away from the curb and the summer breeze catches my hair—I swear my entire body vibrates all the way down to the full coverage briefs I have on beneath my shorts.
It's ridiculous.
I might as well be naked.
Because every inch of me is aware of every inch of him.
His broad back.
His powerful shoulders.
The way his leather cut stretches over muscles that honestly shouldn't exist outside romance novels.
And his smell.
God.
He smells amazing.
Motor oil.
Leather.
Something woodsy and clean and utterly masculine.
And I know—somehow I know—that all of it is justhim.
Without thinking, I tighten my arms around his waist.
