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Now I’m standing next to a big, gleaming motorcycle with a helmet on my head, wondering how the hell this happened.
All I know is Remy and Mac greeted each other like old friends. They talked shop, took a look at my car, and Remy promised to take care of it. He gave me a quote that was basically just the cost of a new tire, then Mac put his hand on my elbow and asked me where I needed to go.
In a daze, I said home to Heart’s Cove, and he told me he’d take me there.
“All set.” Mac’s lips do that hot, tilty, half-smile thing, his eyes full of humor. His fingers linger at my chin before dropping down to his sides.
I knock the side of my helmet with my knuckles. “Feels solid.”
His grin widens, then he jerks a stubble-lined jaw to his machine. “Let’s go.” He swings a leg over the bike and lifts it off its kickstand, then turns to wink at me. “Get on. You’ll love it, I promise.”
Why is my heart thundering? All I can hear is the whining of a machine in the mechanic’s shop and the insistent thumping of my pulse in my ears. With a deep breath, I walk my heeled boots to the bike and swing a leg over. There’s not much space between Mac and me. Not much space at all.
He turns his head to the side. “Hold my waist tight. We’re going to go fast. Don’t want you to fall off.” When I hesitate, I catch that crease in his cheek appearing then disappearing. “You can grab onto my jacket. If you don’t want to wrap yourself around me yet.”
Um, yet? Excuse me? What does that mean?
But Mac revs the bike and I do as he says, shimmying closer as my hands find their way to his waist. My fingers curl into the soft, black leather of his jacket as my chest presses close enough to feel the breadth and solidness of his body. I close my eyes as the bike roars to life, and I realize that maybe I do like bad boys. Maybe I like motorcycles. Maybe I like feeling the vibrations of a powerful machine beneath me while my hands wrap around the sexiest man I’ve ever met.
“Hold on tight. You won’t hurt me if you squeeze hard.” He leans back a bit, as if he’s looking for more contact between us. I curl my fingers into his jacket and hear him let out a low, masculine noise at the back of his throat.
For some reason, that noise nearly undoes me. I close my eyes and keep my grip tight, breathing in the scent of leather and Mac.
Then we take off, and my breath takes off with us. My grip on Mac’s waist tightens as he accelerates, and I think I hear him groan. It’s not until we’re on the freeway on the way back to Heart’s Cove that I realize how hard my arms are squeezing him and how tight my thighs are plastered to the outside of his.
Every inch of me is pressed tight to every inch of him. From neck to navel, all I feel is Mac. His strong, muscular back encased in leather. His ass against the insides of my thighs. His ribs under my arms. It feels…good. Great. Amazing.
Too good. My breasts are pressed up against a strange man’s back and all I can think about is how much I want more.
I haven’t been this close to a man besides Kevin in over thirteen years. I haven’t been this close to Kevin in years, either.
But when I try to loosen my grip, he speeds up and I have no choice but to hold on.
And it’s magic.
The wind, the freedom, the feeling of flying. It takes my breath away. It makes my heart soar. I stop thinking about how hot the feel of his body next to mine makes me and about how wrong it is for me to enjoy it.
The heat of Mac’s body is a blaze at my front, protecting me from the chill of the wind whipping past us. For a few glorious minutes I don’t even mind that I’m plastered to his back, because it feels too good not to be. I rest my chin on his shoulder and watch the world rush past us.
Mac moves the bike like it’s an extension of his body. He’s totally in control. Totally confident. Totally freaking hot.
It’s not until we cross the Heart’s Cove town limits and slow down that I realize just how tight I’m holding him. I unclasp my hands from his jacket and Mac lets out a low chuckle.
“How was that?”
“Incredible,” I breathe.
There’s a smile in his voice when he responds, as if he’s pleased with me. “Where to, gorgeous?”
Those three words should not make my insides clench the way they just did.
“Um…” Do I really want to drive up to my house on the back of Mac’s motorcycle? I can just imagine the inquisition my mother would launch. “The Four Cups Café is fine. My sister owns it. She’ll get me the rest of the way.”
My sister, Candice, owns the café along with three of her friends. It’s become crazy-popular in town, and I’m not surprised that Mac knows exactly how to get there.
But when we pull up outside, I am surprised to see him turn off the bike and set it on its kickstand. I attempt a graceful dismount and mostly succeed, even if I do have to lean heavily on his broad shoulders and teeter a little bit on the curb. Mac follows with a much more practiced movement, his hands immediately reaching to steady my hips.
How is he so warm? His hands feel so damn good against my jeans, fingers holding me tight as I try to catch my balance. Then his hands leave my hips and reach for the clasp at my chin, but my body hasn’t caught up. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers on my hips, the heat of his body against mine.
