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He makes me feel things I’ve never felt, makes me hope and dream and long for so much more. And I did what I never do. I let my logical brain be silenced by what my heart wants.
I didn’t become who I was by allowing emotions to rule me, and I’m not going to start now.
“Get on the bike,” he growls, in a voice still tainted by anger. I slam the helmet on my head.
“Fine,” I snap. I’m just on the verge of snapping at him to take me home where I can nurse my wounds, until I remember that we’re not on a date.
His eyes narrow on me as he holds the bike steady for me then jerks his chin at the bike to tell me to get on. I swing my leg over the side of the bike and cross my arms on my chest. It sways a little, but he quickly rights it. I relax when he bears the weight.
“Are you getting on or what?” My voice trembles with anger. He gives me what I might call a warning look, something that tells me not to push him too hard. I’d be smart to let things sizzle out right about now, to do what we refer to in academia as de-escalating.
I can still see it in my textbook.
De-escalation: the act of reducing or diminishing the intensity of a conflict or potentially violent situation.
I can still see the images of policemen, first responders, and medical personnel de-escalating a situation. I can still hear my professor reminding us how integral it is when dealing with those with mental illnesses or who are distraught to remain cool, calm, and collected, so we don’t throw fuel onto the fire, so to speak.
But all my training, my experience, and my education mean nothing right now, and I can’t seem to get a grip on my anger.
The air crackles between us, potent with electric sparks.
“Are you going to just stand there and glower at me? Last I checked, I don’t know how to drive this thing, and I highly doubt it’s one of those self-driving pieces of machinery.”
Self-driving pieces of machinery? God, what am I even thinking?
His back goes rigid, and at first, he doesn’t respond. Just when I’ve had it with him giving me the silent treatment or whatever the hell he’s doing, and I open my mouth, he opens his and starts to talk.
“It is not. And yes, I am.”
“Then why the hesitation?” I snap, my blood boiling.
A muscle jerks in his jaw. My heart thumps involuntarily. “I’m trying to decide if I need to put you over my knee right here, right now, or wait until we get to the safe house.”
My jaw drops open and I stare, wide-eyed. I want to protest, but I don’t know what to say or how to respond. He says it so… matter-of-factly. Like lighting my ass on fire is just something that has to happen, the only question is where and when.
“Excuse me?” I finally sputter, before I frantically look around to see if anyone overheard us. “I don’t recall agreeing to—”
“And that gives me my answer.” Holding the bike steady, he’s careful to swing his leg over and take his place in front of me. When he starts the engine, it revs beneath me. I squeeze my legs together to stop the flare of erotic need, but it’s hopeless.
Motorcycles turn me on.
Constantine turns me on.
Getting threatened with a spanking turns me on.
Fuck my life.
“What answer?” I ask, but as soon as I ask, the wind swallows my words and whips my hair around.
Against my better judgment, I wrap my arms around his waist, lock myself into place, and he takes off.
The engine purrs like a stallion. Between the humming between my legs, his sturdy, muscled back against my chest, and the fear of whatever will happen when this ride is over, I’m a damn mess when he turns into the driveway of a house that looks somehow vaguely familiar to me.
He pulls to a stop and cuts the engine. Silence echoes around us.
I look around us, trying to put some context to our location, but it’s too dark here for me to really know where we are.
“Where are we?”
He grunts in response, as if expecting me to just accept that.
No explanation. No reasoning.
All of this—the way he comports himself, the way he talks, the way he makes decisions without a second thought—reminds me of who he is: a man who’s used to leadership and knows no other way. A man who’s used to responsibility. A man accustomed to being in charge. It’s who he is, down to his very toes.
I cannot protect anyone who undermines me.
And for some reason, that knowledge, that actual understanding of who he is and what he does, diffuses me a little.
