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The blood drains from my face and pools at my feet. “I can walk. Your shop isn’t far.”
“What are you so scared of?”
You. I’m scared of you, and how I’m seriously thinking about getting on the back of your death trap.
“Come on.” He tilts his head with a wink. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Something warm flutters in my stomach.
I’m certifiably insane because my feet are moving toward him on their own accord.
He says, “Good girl,” and a slow wink has me melting all the way to my toes.
He throws his leg over, turning the key until the engine roars to life, the sound resonating in my chest.
Licking my dry lips, I straddle the seat until my front is flush with his back. He’s warm and the muscles under my hands are rigid as I slide them around his waist and cling to his T-shirt.
He gives my hands a reassuring squeeze. “Ready?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.
Three deep breaths later, I nod, grip him a little tighter, and agree.
“I’m ready.”
∞∞∞
Ten minutes later, Logan turns the corner to his shop.
My thirsty eyes drink in the sight as it comes into view.
Rows of motorcycles line the street. Smoke billows from food stalls, music blasts from a speaker somewhere. People laugh and dance, their loud chatter filling the air around us. The smell of food, leather, and engine fumes mix with the city air. Children queue at the ice-cream truck, some lick it from where it’s melting down their hand in the summer heat.
And bikers.
Lots and lots of bikers.
Most are covered in tattoos. Some wear leather vests over their T-shirts even as the sun blasts blistering heat from the sky. A patch on their back reads,The Kingsmen.
This is nothing short of a street party.
A hairy street party, but a street party.
Directly in front of the studio, Logan turns into an empty space.
He looks over his shoulder at me, amusement in his dark green eyes.
“You’ll need to let go of me if you want to get off the bike, pretty girl.”
Blushing and grateful he can’t see it under the helmet, my knuckles are white and stiff when I finally release my grip.
I remove the helmet and get off with shaky legs.
“What is this?”
He stands, but it’s too close. The scent of spice and leather is intoxicating. He doesn’t back away. I don’t think I want him to.
His size is intimidating, his shoulders blocking the view of what’s going on behind him, or maybe I just don’t care when he’s standing so close.
“What does it look like?”
