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Austin’s dark eyes are full of warmth and amusement.
"There really isn't a lot of good reading in prison.” His smile fades as Austin’s face grows serious and intense. The way he’s looking at me makes my throat dry and tight. Beneath my faded jeans, my sex clenches, anything but dry.
“Plus,” he goes on, “I was worried I'd lose them. I couldn’t risk them getting stolen or confiscated. So I memorized them the second I opened them."
I swallow, reaching out to grab the cup.
“Fine, but you can’t go too fast. I don’t know if you know just how unsafe those things are, but —”
Austin reaches over, grabbing a helmet and thrusting it at me.
“You’re going to have to wait to finish your drink, I’m afraid.” He plucks the newly-acquired Americano out of my hand. “Hard to drink in one of these.”
I take a long look at the round helmet in my hands. It’s not what I’m expecting. Unlike Austin’s, sleek black with a clear visor, the spare helmet I’m holding onto is a vibrant splash of color. Rainbows, butterflies, unicorns, and narwhals all dance together in an eclectic pattern that covers every inch. It makes me smile despite the hum of fear still threatening at the corners of my mind.
"Here," he says, shucking off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. More than one mom picking up her kid stops to watch as he strips, revealing a skintight vee-neck. He might not be approachable, but he's undoubtedly beautiful.
Hypocrites.
The thought cements my resolve, and I push my arms through the too-big sleeves of the jacket.
“Alright. But for the record, if we get in an accident, I get to say I told you so.” I nod.
Austin chuckles, swinging one leg over his bike. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. There’s something inherently sexy about watching a man mount something.
Would he mount me like that if I asked?
“Climb on up. I’ve got a holder for the coffee. You’ll need both hands to hold on,” he rumbles.
I realize I've made a terrible mistake when he kicks the bike to life.
The engine roars to life, and every single vibration slams into me. Directly between my thighs. I shudder and dig my nails into Austin's stomach, which doesn't help. His abs are rock solid beneath my fingers. It starts a feedback loop that leaves my brain and body buzzing.
"Squeeze me as tight as you want. You can't hurt me," Austin calls over his shoulder as we take off.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. My grip tightens and I slam my eyes shut, unable to watch the scenery getting eaten up. I focus instead on the feeling of Austins' body against mine. The vibrations between my thighs are good, but the feeling of his warm back pressed against me pushes me close to the edge. I slide my hands up and down, exploring the ridges of his stomach.
Lost in my exploration of his body, I don't look up until we're clear of all the traffic. When I open my eyes, there's nothing but mountains and the ocean.
“Where are we going?!” I shout over the roar of the engine.
I don't get a response besides the engine's rev as Austin cuts it loose. I watch as he glides us along the stretch of freeway. The bike seems to respond to his slightest touch.
My hands wander, sliding beneath the tight cotton of his shirt. There’s more hard muscle, a sea of it that I can’t seem to get enough of. I brush my fingertips along his body, sliding them over his chest, my palm brushing against one nipple.
Abruptly, Austin veers us off the road, skidding to a stop. I blink, looking around, and realize we’re parked at a scenic overlook.
The small lot of packed dirt and asphalt juts out over the side of the highway, carved out of the mountain. A soft spray of bright yellow poppies climbs along the side of the road, framing the view beyond. The boardwalk tumbles into view in the distance, a miniature play-land cradled in the valley between two majestic hills. The ocean spreads out in every direction around us, brilliant blue against the sun-bleached afternoon sky. From up here, the sound of crashing waves is a rhythmic pulse.
"As much as I'm enjoying this if you wouldn't mind moving your hand?" Austin’s voice is half-amused.
There’s more there, too. A dark tone that I can’t quite identify. I pull my hand back like I just touched red-hot metal instead of a red-hot man.
His expression is pure male amusement. The trace of a smirk lurks on his lips. Even that looks good on Austin. He should be cocky. The man is a walking billboard for sex.
“Um, I thought you were just driving me home?” I ask, tugging my helmet off and looking around.
Once again, I’m all alone with Austin.
