Page 19 of Brutal Vows

I eye the helmets, knowing with sinking dread I’m not getting out of this. “Safety first?” I murmur, the wind out of my sails.

“Always. Here, hair away from your face.” With two gentle brushes along my forehead and down my temples, he gathers my long hair and hooks the strands behind my ears.

The touch is more of a caress, and heat blooms in my cheeks.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Milana, just don’t, but already, my nipples are hardening. I’m still standing stoic, my arms crossed, but he is all concentration as he takes a helmet and lifts it up to hover over my head.

“May I?”

I shudder out a sigh. Consent second. “If you must.”

“I absolutely must,” he says with a smile curving up one corner of his mouth.

Then I’m reaching up, helping him to put the dratted helmet on. Our fingers touch, and I swear if he feels the same heated spark on his skin as I do, I’m more fucked than I was before. The sooner we get this over with, the better.

He secures the helmet under my chin, so freaking gently, the spots on my neck where his knuckles brush my skin tell me I’m not fucked yet, but I want to be—badly. Then he flips the visor up and peeks in. “How’s the fit?”

“Heavy! Suffocating! Horrible!” I retaliate, fighting to keep my equilibrium with this man.

“Poor baby. It’s the best muzzle ever. At least now I know you won’t bite.”

Bite? Am I an untamed animal now? I probably am, and he is dragging that version of me to the surface with an arranged marriage, surprise kisses, and his perfect sexy voice and—and⁠—

With that, he flips the visor closed, leaving me stuttering for words, fuming, but biting down a smile. Infuriating man!

I stand by as he strips off his suit jacket, vest, and tie, tosses them to the guy looking on, gives him quick instructions about my bags and meeting us at the marina—marina?—then gives me another wry inspection.

“To get on, hands here, one foot up here”—he indicates a hand grip and separate footrests— “and haul yourself up.”

“No way in hell. You’ve trimmed my dress so short, I’ll flash the whole entourage if I swing a leg over, and we’re already putting on quite a show.”

He looks down, swallows, then seems to get my protest because he rolls his eyes at me—rolls his eyes at me—and grunts, “You’re not helping, princess, and there I thought you wanted to get outta here.” He gets on the bike, does something with the kickstand to put the bike upright and no longer leaning to the side.

“Turn around,” he says as he clambers off, waving at the three men looking on. They comply, dutifully give us their backs, then Luca steps up behind me. “The bike is on its central stand now and won’t fall over, so I’ll help you up.”

“How?”

“Just be a good girl and let me settle you on the bike so I can get on the bike, block all visuals, and we can leave.”

Before I can even grasp what he’s doing, he grips me around the waist and heaves me up as if I weigh nothing.

I screech, but he ignores me and holds me above the bike, giving me a few seconds to orient my flailing legs and perch my heeled feet on the footrests, then he props me up on the back seat.

“Hold on tight,” he says, not letting go until I’ve found my balance, gripping the seat. “Good. Phew.” He stands to the side and flicks my visor up again, staring into my eyes, laughter in his own. “You’re making me work, princess.”

That might have been the most surprising thing a man has ever done to me. But was he expecting easy? From the way we’ve been taunting each other, I suspect my husband likes a challenge. I blink innocently at him, and he grins back.

“This is important now, so listen. You’re going to wrap your arms around my waist. Stick to my back and don’t shift about but match my movements. If I lean, you lean with me. And try not to bang into me with your helmet when I brake. You’re smaller than me, but you’re sitting higher, so our helmets align. Think of this as a dance of sorts, quick-quick-slow. It’s only twenty minutes, and then we’re at the marina. Got it?”

No. Not at all. My heart is beating everywhere, not with fear, but with adrenaline and a rush of something else I don’t want to dissect. It’s the thrill of stepping outside of my comfort zone. Hell, I just got married to a stranger—this stranger. Maybe a madman. What’s a bike ride in comparison?

“Milana, are you even listening?”

“Yes, yes. Got it.”

“Good. Now hold on.” He swings a leg over, settles in his seat, takes his helmet from the man who served as our valet, and puts it on.

Then he leans back in the cradle of my legs and God knows, if I’m not already wet, I’m going to be. Fuck my life. He’s going to be a challenge—to my focus, for one.