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“Tell me something I don’t know.” She runs her finger down the shiny black paint of the engine, and I swear I can feel it like she’s touching my body instead. “There’s no one in the world like Timofey Viktorov.”
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.”
I hand her a helmet and climb on.
“I’m getting on the back?” she asks, lingering on the sidewalk.
“It doesn’t work as well when you try sitting on the handlebars,” I drawl. “So it’s either the back, or you’re walking.”
Piper hesitates for one more moment. I watch her—long, lithe, petite, fucking beautiful. Then she makes her decision.
She throws her leg over easily enough. For a second, she tries to keep space between our bodies. She sits as far back on the seat as she can.
As soon as I start the engine and pull away from the curb, that goes out the window.
Piper yelps and wraps both arms around me. I feel the warmth of her thighs wrapped around my lower back. I feel her breasts squeezed against my back. Every inch of her is held against me, soft and firm in all the right places.
And one thought stands above all the rest of the tumult in my head.
We’re both in a lot of fucking trouble.
24
PIPER
With each corner Timofey speeds around, the wind whipping through my hair, I can feel the clutch of my claustrophobia easing. The pressure on my chest lightens.
I can breathe.
“Hang on,” Timofey calls over his shoulder as he accelerates through a turn and opens the throttle wide.
He says that like I’m not already clinging to him with every ounce of strength in my body.
Any normal person would be way more afraid of this versus tight spaces. Sitting on the back of an absurdly overpowered motorcycle as it hurtles through traffic with no seatbelt and nothing but a thin layer of plastic around your skull is definitively more terrifying than being in the backseat of a car. Especially when you consider that a known criminal and kidnapper is the one at the wheel. Or, the handlebars, or whatever.
And yet I feel perfectly at peace here.
Ironically, the thought makes my heart race. How can I be perfectly at peace with my arms wrapped around a monster’s waist?
How can I find peace next to the man who just had me arrested and tossed in some grimy jail cell simply because he could?
Stockholm syndrome, I think.I never knew it could kick in so fast.
This was probably part of his plan all along. He’d hurl me in jail and then show up as the big hero to rescue me. I played right into his hands. Ithankedhim for undoing the horrible thing he’d done.
I snort, disgusted with myself.
“Care to share your thoughts?” Timofey asks.
I shake my head. "Nope."
“Being close to me isn’t going to trigger some new freak-out, is it?”
"I'm not going tofreak out, asshole.”
I hate that he knows I’m claustrophobic. I shouldn’t have told him. As if he needed one more weapon in his toolbox against me.
There wasn’t much of an option, though. He saw me trembling and crying in jail. I had to explain away my behavior somehow. I didn't want him thinking I was weak without a cause.
