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Connor revs up the engine and the entire machine between my legs rumbles to life. The vibrations hum through my body, shaking my bones and tickling my nerves. Connor’s legs push us off the stand and we’re balanced perfectly. Although, I admit, I feel as if I’m going to fall off at any moment. It’s like trying to stay on a tightrope. Suddenly being dumped onto the pavement seems like a very real possibility.
I slowly snake my arms around Connor’s body, holding tentatively onto the tight muscles around his rib cage. He pulls my wrists up so that my arms are on his chest and not where I grabbed for him. He presses his hand over mine as if to indicate I should keep my hands over his pecs while he drives. My Inner Sex Goddess happily complies. His body is like iron under my grip. I dig in and hold on for dear life.
“Ready?” he asks into the microphone. I don’t trust my voice to respond. It will sound high-pitched, nervous and scared. I don’t want to sound scared, even though right now, I’m totally terrified. I pat my hand against his chest in an effort to confirm I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
With a twist of his wrist and the tap of a foot, we lurch forward.
I can feel every muscle in Connor’s body. Pressed against my chest, his back muscles flex under his shirt. Neck twisting, he checks the traffic. His hips twitch against my inner thighs and knees when he adjusts positions or changes gears. His abs tighten in the turns and corners. His heartbeat quickens. The soft thump of it ebbs and flows in hot waves under my fingertips. Holy macaroni balls! This is the most erotic experience of my life. It should probably upset me to think that riding on the back of a motorcycle through downtown traffic fully clothed in broad daylight is the most erotic thing I’ve ever done. But it doesn’t.
Mr. Pencil Tapper would be giving me his full-on “I told you so” look of pity again, I’m sure. But I don’t care about that either. This is sexy as hell. #bikerchick
I love how Connor’s body responds to curves, stops and turns. I love the way he feels so close to me. The heat is trapped between us, his heart pulsating wildly.
We finally escape the city and turn down a nearly empty road away from town. Connor sits up a bit and begins to relax. I mimic his actions, letting my spine settle. I slide one hand to his hip to straighten, but I feel his giant claw of a hand move to cover mine and place it back on his chest. Then, he holds it tightly against him as we ride. The gesture is small and innocent. But I know he wants to feel my touch there. I close my eyes, relishing the sensation of his body and mine on this machine. And the thought he wants me touching him like this — so intimately — gives me a rush that nearly makes me dizzy.
The sky is perfectly clear and blue without a single white puff of a cloud to mar its flawless beauty. The sun is hot, but the wind that we push through cools me so much, I actually feel goose bumps rise up over my bare arms. Well, it could be the breeze. It could also be because Connor is now slowly stroking my wrist and forearm laid over his chest with the pad of his thumb. The feeling is extraordinary. It’s somehow familiar and automatic, even though it’s also completely new and totally unexpected. I breathe in and let the glory and the wind and the sun and vast blue sky take me in. I let Connor take me in, too.
Connor’s definition of “not far” really needs some serious revision. We ride for nearly an hour before coming to a stop. The insides of my legs scream in pain. When we first started, I kept them clenched around Connor’s hips like a vise grip — my body’s way of silently praying that we didn’t end up a mushy spot on the Georgia 400. After we left the city, however, I simply stretched and held them until they began aching. My back and neck, too, have grown stiff from being still for so long. Connor kills the engine and I happily dismount.
We stop alongside what looks to be some sort of a ranch or farm. A split rail fence runs along the roadside. Often, fence posts are just existing pines that grew up into the property line. A metal gate breaks the endless line of fencing. Ox and Connor push the bikes out of sight of the road and under the shade of a large oak tree.
I pull my helmet off and immediately try to smooth and fluff my helmet hair. Tori twists off her helmet and gives her head a quick shake, sending every hair into its place among the effortless curls that drip and coil down her back. I so want to hate her. But it’s impossible. I attempt to shake out my own tangles and hand my helmet to Connor who secures it to the bike.
“I need to stretch my legs. Let’s walk.” Conner, again, asks through command. But I nod, eager to try to use different muscles in my legs and arms and give my inner thighs and back a break.
Tori and Ox pull a blanket out of some saddlebags attached to the side of his bike and disappear, giggling behind a tight knot of trees.
Connor and I walk down a gentle slope of grass and clover toward a tiny trickle of water. Before we’ve taken a dozen steps, the trickle becomes a small creek. And with another fifty paces or so, the creek widens into a shallow river. Connor toes out of his boots, peels off his socks and rolls up the cuffs of his jeans.
“Damn, it’s hot today,” he says, wading out into the fast-moving water. “You coming, or what?”
I repeat his actions and wade in beside him. The soft mud of the river squishes between my toes. The water is cold and rushes by me so fast that I almost lose my footing. But the movement of it against my ankles somehow manages to cool my entire body.
Connor bends over and splashes his face with a handful of water. Then, he reaches behind him and pulls his shirt off over his head. He tosses it beside his boots on the sloping bank. He pulls his hair into a loose bun and secures it with a tie, turning so the full vision of his naked torso is revealed.
My mouth falls open. His entire back and shoulders are a tapestry of some of the most beautiful tattoos I’ve ever seen. A lion’s face and mane spread across his shoulder blades. The animal is done entirely of black lines and gray shadows and he looks as if he could open his mouth and roar at any minute. He wears a crown on his head made of the American flag and other small pictures: a rifle, a bullet of some sort and tiny boots. Beneath his chin, the hair of his mane morphs into the eyes of a predatory bird. An owl or an eagle perhaps? The image is a tangle of smaller pictures fitting and melting together to create a tapestry of ink on his skin. And the most stunning feature is the electric blue eyes of the lion. Lost in a sea of flesh and black, they completely hypnotize me. I gasp at the sight of the extraordinary beauty.
Connor turns and looks behind him before his eyes meet mine.
“Is all that noise for my tats?” He’s wearing his little smirk. I’ve seen it before. The first time was when he watched me throw back the sipping whiskey in a single shot. Then again when I said I’d never been on a motorcycle and Ox called me a virgin for it.
“I’m sorry to, but wow!”
I’m dumbstruck by its beauty. The artistry and skill it must have taken to create a piece like this. It moves me in a way I can’t explain. Sorrowful and yet hopeful at the same time. Connor’s lion looks angry and vengeful, but also peaceful and protective. It’s so much more than a tattoo. It’s a work of art.
“So, is that a good wow or a bad wow?” he asks, turning to me and raking his wet hands over his hair to dampen it down.
“A good wow, definitely. I don’t mean to stare. I’m sorry. I’ve just never actually seen anything like that before. It’s stunning.”
He gives me the playful smirk again. “You’ve never seen a tattoo?”
“I mean, you know, those silly frat boy things they get on their ankles and forearms, but nothing like this.”
I am drawn to the lion. Inexplicably pulled to him. I wade out deeper, feeling the rushing water soak my jeans to the middle of my calves. I reach a hand up toward his shoulder, and then pause, leaving it inches away from touching his body. A half hour ago, I held tightly to every inch of him, but now touching his skin feels like an act that’s too intimate.
He turns around revealing the lion to me again. Twisting his head to look at me, he says invitingly, “You can touch it if you want to. It doesn’t bite.”
I grin. I must look like I am afraid the life-like animal will open his mouth and devour me in his jaws. Because he totally looks like he could. And I feel like I could let him. I could let the lion consume me entirely. Get lost in the piercing blue of his eyes and the silken waves of his mane.
