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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
*Lace*
Inside the tent is pure madness when I step off the stage and into the dressing area. The girl who sneered at me and called me a whore on her way by is writhing on the floor, and the rest of the contestants who left the stage with her are huddled around trying to help her up.
One thing I am not is an idiot. I know when it’s my cue to leave. I quickly collect all my belongings, which I made a point to pack right after using them, just in case, and get the hell out of here.
On my hasty escape, I nearly run smack dab into Zane. His hands come to my biceps to keep us from tumbling. Then, he quickly removes his leather jacket, places it over my shoulders, relieves my hands of their contents, passes me my helmet, hitches my bag over his shoulder, and curves an arm around me to casually lead me away from the quickly gathering crowd.
My heels clack frenziedly against the black pavement. “Is Remi okay?” I ask, assuming she was who taught that bitch a lesson before I could.
Zane huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah, she burnt rubber and disappeared into the night.”
Buzzing on an adrenaline high, I laugh freely, hand coming up to clasp my mouth. “She is a good pick, for sure. Crow, Trenton, and Hayes better tie that girl down.”
“They probably already have.”
“Touché.”
“Are Chaz and Brodi coming?” I ask, weaving my arms into his jacket.
Zane shakes his head. “No, they’re staying behind to make sure things are taken care of here. At least until the crowd completely disperses.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” I salute him, fit the helmet over my head, and clip the strap.
He moves fast, situating everything on his bike, including himself, before patting the passenger seat. “Hop on.”
I freeze, gaze dropping to my bottom half then to my bag which he, after a bit of effort, strategically secured to where a saddlebag might go; through all the excitement, I remember my pussy is covered in all shades of brown.
Despite all my wild and crazy experiences over the years, I can honestly say that I have never ridden on a motorcycle naked, or even partially naked, for that matter.
This is a recipe for disaster. A good, delicious recipe but disastrous, nonetheless.
Zane catches my hesitancy, and his fawn-colored eyes get all adorably shifty. “Ah, um.” His hand cups the back of his reddening neck. “It’s fine. Really. I can just wash the makeup off afterward.”
Oh… He’s worried about the makeup.
Cute.
I want to gape at him and warn, “No, it’s not fine. I am gonna cum so hard on your bike, you have no idea,” but instead, I simply nod and mount.
Getting on his Beemer is a lot different than the others. The seat is closer and not quite so high up. Add how tall Zane is to the mix, and the two-up ride is a lot more intimate. It quickly dawns on me that this might be the first time he has ever ridden with a female passenger. Maybe.
Curious, I inquire as he balances us, feet flat against the ground. “Take people on your bike often?”
His helmeted head angles, eyes aimed down toward where the ball of my stupidly spiky platforms are balanced on his passenger foot pegs. Broad shoulders rising and falling with a preparatory breath, he shakes his head, aims his focus forward again, and heels up the kickstand. I wrap my arms around his waist and clasp my fingers. His helmet bobs downward as his focus drops to the contact.
I keep still, letting him adjust. Both physically and mentally. The longer we sit there, the more aggressively my body responds to the power of his bike juddering between my legs.
Oh stars.
Please leave.
Hurry and get to our destination.
I am not okay.
Zane grips the throttle, bends his wrist, and we ease forward, his riding boots lifting to prop up as we leave the parking area and turn onto the main street.
