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The Golden Gate Bridge towered above them, the lights from the evening traffic giving the magnificent steel structure an eerie red glow, silhouetted against the dying day. An eighteen-wheeler rumbled as they flew past it, and she stole a glance over her shoulder to see the city stacked like children’s building blocks on the hillside behind them.
She sheltered behind Luke’s broad back and imagined them taking flight across San Francisco Bay into the erotic dream which had blindsided her.
She wasn’t Cassandra James, smart and supremely efficient executive assistant who always kept her mind on business any more. She was Cassandra James, free spirit and all-round badass.
The journey seemed to take for ever and yet no time at all. Hills shaped like sleeping giants formed the dark shoreline ahead as the suspension bridge’s final supporting strut passed over their heads. They took a series of twists and turns off the main road, through manicured parks and down dark roads, to a marina covered in mist.
Luke parked the bike at the end of the point and the engine powered down as they sat in the darkness alone together, next to a small grove of palm trees. The light from a waterfront diner and the distant beat of dance music spilled into the quiet night.
Luke lifted off his helmet and hooked it over the handlebars, then twisted round to unclip hers.
‘Hop down,’ he said, and she suddenly wondered if she’d done something wrong, because his voice was no longer relaxed, and the playfulness had vanished from his eyes.
She had to hold on to his shoulder to get her leg over, dismounting in a tangle of gold lamé which only made her feel more self-conscious.
She stood shivering in his jacket, the warm weight of it reminding her of the heady scent which had engulfed her when he’d draped it over her shoulders what felt like a lifetime ago. On that other girl. The dull rule-follower who would never have got on a bike with a guy she’d just met in a million years.
She waited for him to dismount and tuck the helmets in the saddlebag, wrapping her arms around herself to stave off a shudder of inadequacy.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
His head rose and his eyes flared. ‘Yeah, actually there is.’
Then, to her utter surprise, he snagged her wrist and drew her into his arms. Suddenly she was surrounded by his warmth, his heat, the heady scent of soap and man and sea water. A pulse of need throbbed viciously as his gaze raked over her and one s
trong hand cradled her face.
‘I want to kiss you so bad I can’t think straight...’
The husky murmur was so full of need and intensity it seemed to reverberate in her sex.
‘And I sure as hell can’t drive.’ His mouth hovered over hers and he whispered, ‘Tell me you want to kiss me too, Cassandra.’
She could have said no. Maybe should have said no. But it would have been a lie.
‘Yes.’
In less than a heartbeat his mouth found hers. The kiss was warm, firm, uncompromising. But where she would have expected him to be demanding he was coaxing...where she would have expected practised moves she got the thrill of desperation.
No man had ever kissed her before with such fervour, such yearning. His tongue delved deep, dancing with hers, licking and feasting, tasting and tantalising, until she was clinging to him even tighter and harder than she had as they’d flown across the bay.
Sensations bombarded her—all of them novel and intoxicating—and this time the weightless sensation in her stomach became swifter, sharper and more brutal, the longing so real and vivid it was painful.
He tore his mouth away first, then opened the lapels of his jacket to wrap his arms around her waist and draw her against his body. The insistent edge of his erection pressed into her belly through their clothing. But what would once have shocked her only excited her more.
Why did this feel so right? So new and exciting? Why did tonight feel like a night out of time? Was it the jet lag? That one Aperol Spritz and those few sips of champagne? The tour of the city? The beauty of that magnificent view and the wild ride that had followed? Or was it simply the heady feeling of being wanted so desperately and knowing she wanted with the same urgency in return?
‘My seaplane’s docked here. I can call you a cab back to your hotel, or you can come with me to Sunrise Island tonight.’
He ran his thumb down the side of her face and the whisper of sensation intensified the longing now charging through her veins.
‘One night,’ he said. ‘And I’ll bring you back tomorrow morning.’
The implication was clear. This didn’t mean more to him than slaking this raw, shocking need which had sprung from nowhere.
She stifled the foolish sting of disappointment and whispered, ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘Like what?’ he asked.
