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“I went shoppingforyou,” he corrects me, shrugging out of his cut and unlacing his boots. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower. Try everything on.”
Huh? Shopping for me…at a biker store.Interesting and terrifying.
Ripping open the first bag, I groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Inside the bag are several denim pants. Reaching in, I pull out the one on top. With a flick of my wrists, the pants unfold. I hold the offensive material out in front of me, eyeing them with apprehension. It’s been years since I wore jeans, mostly because I never found a pair to fit my curves without looking like a stuffed sausage.
“What’s wrong with my linen pants?” I call into the bathroom. Linen pants are flexible and comfortable, I have plenty of those.
“They’re not safe enough. You need a layer of protection in case something goes south on our ride,” he hollers from the shower.
With a resigning sigh, I toss my towel on the bed. My undergarments go on before I thoroughly moisturize my legs. Extra lubricant will be needed to slip into these puppies.
In goes one leg, then the other. With my fingers, I pull the dense fabric over my thighs. Typically, it’s a struggle to get jeans over my hips, but this must be some magic denim. It stretches over my curves easily, with minimal tugging. The button snaps shut above my navel, holding in everything.
Dumbfounded, I clamor over to the full-length mirror on the closet door. My mouth gapes as I assess my new favorite pants. They’re high-waisted, bootcut jeans in a distressed finish, molding around my figure in a tastefully seductive way.
“They’re perfect,” I muse aloud.
“Do you like them?”
I hadn’t heard the shower turn off or Chase’s approach. Then again, I never hear him when he sneaks up on me.
Going for flirty, I smile over my shoulder at him. “I want to hate them, but I absolutely love these. How did you know my size?”
Chase stands behind me, his towel sitting low on his trim hips. Water droplets follow the creases between his cut muscles, dripping below the towel. The man has me wishing I was a single drop of water going south on him. Goosebumps break out across my skin where his fingers slowly travel over my exposed arms.
“I know everything about you, Numbers. Memorized every inch of your beautiful body. When you’ve been watching someone as long as I’ve been watching you, you learn every hill and valley, like the roads I ride daily. It wasn’t difficult when you already told me your likes and dislikes regarding jeans. These…” He pauses, releasing a guttural groan as his eyes fixate on my round backside. “These show off your shape perfectly.”
Seeking more of his touch, I turn to face him. His fingers slip into my back pockets, molding around my bottom as much as the fabric allows. With one fast tug, he has me flush against his damp chest. A girlish giggle slips past my lips, slowly morphing into a low moan as he runs his nose along my neck, breathing me in. He hums deep in his chest.
“Chase,” I whisper, sensing my resolve slipping. I ask my next question before I give in to my needy desires. “Have our plans changed? Are we staying in tonight?”
He places a soft kiss under my ear. “No. Now that I finally have you, I’m taking your fine ass out on my bike, where I can show you off properly. Make every fucker with eyeballs jealous.”
“Are you sure you’re going to handle others ogling me?” I tease.
“As long as they stay in their lane, they can admire you.” He tightens his hold on me, our lips an inch apart. “If they attempt to do more…I’m not above putting them in their place.”
With a smile on my face, I shake my head at him. “So possessive.”
“Only with you,” he vows.
Part of me—the needy, wanton part—wishes he’d throw me on the bed. However, an evening out as a couple isn’t something to shrug off. And there’s that whole other thing about how me telling him I love him for the first time would mean more outside of the bedroom, where he could dismiss my declaration as words misspoken in a moment of passion.
I bop the end of his Roman nose with my fingertip. “We best finish getting ready.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT
SIMONE
Thirty minutes later, after several longing looks and a few stolen kisses between dressing and doing hair, Chase and I walk hand-in-hand toward the hotel parking garage. I’m giving him directions to a great restaurant with live music when we round the bend where our vehicles are parked.
“The hell?!” Chase releases my hand, sprinting to where his bike is lying on its side on the concrete ground.
In front of the wreckage, his hands fly onto his head, gripping his long tawny-colored hair. Kneeling, he looks closer at the damage. His face twists in an angry snarl. “FUCK!”
Chase’s bike is an extension of himself, as it is for all bikers. Seeing him crawl all over it with frantic fingers to investigate the dents is heart-wrenching to watch.
