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I can make an exception. Just this once.
My hands cinch shut around either side of her waist, and I lift her up off her feet. She’s taller than the average woman at around five-six, five-seven feet, but she’s surprisingly light. If this were the bedroom, she’d be easy to throw around—a thought I shove aside for later fantasies.
I pick her up and plop her down on the seat of the nearest Harley, a 1998 Road Glide. She squeals in surprise and kicks her legs out, as if that’ll do anything.
When I set her down on the bike seat, she sits still like she’s afraid to move, or risk damaging the bike.
I husk out a throaty laugh. “It’s not made of glass. You can grip it. Swing your leg around to the other side and pretend you’re riding it.”
“Mason…” she shakes her head and diverts her gaze.
She’s embarrassed. She doesn’t feel confident on the bike.
Sydney Singer, the same girl who struts around a bar full of bikers in fucking Daisy Dukes and a low-cut crop top like it’s nothing. She’s unsure of herself right now.
“Here, I’ll help you,” I say, stepping toward the bike.
It becomes a moment where it’s almost like I’m watching us as a third person. Some outsider standing on the sidelines as I lift her again. Just partially off the seat, enough for her to get her leg over onto the other side of the bike. I lean closer, caging her under me, taking her arms and straightening them out so she can reach for the bike handles. Our faces end up next to each other. Our cheeks almost touch.
“You position yourself like this,” I say, contorting her body. I can’t help noticing how smooth her skin feels and how fucking good she smells when this close. I almost inhale a deep whiff of her hair, then think better of it, and stop myself.
Sydney’s tense. Her curvy body bends to my will. It listens as I put her in the right position on the bike, but I can sense her nerves, leaning forward with her apple-bottomed ass perched on the seat. I can pick up on how I’m affecting her even if she’d never say it aloud.
Every time I touch her, she takes in the smallest, almost silent intake of air. Every time my larger body covers hers, my front grazing her spine, she goes still and her skin warms. It makes me want to find out what other kind of reactions I can force out of her…
“Hold that pose!”
Click!
We both look up in alarm.
The bike display photographer we’ve hired for the day snaps away on his professional camera. He clicks several times, capturing different photos of us. Sydney on the bike. Me hunched over her, speaking so intimately only she hears.
I stand up straight and Sydney hops off the bike. You’d think we were both electrocuted the swift way we separate ourselves.
That’s when I realize there’s a long ass line we’ve let accumulate. People have started gathering in wait to admire the bike display and get their photos taken too.
I step out of the way so the first people in line can take their place.
“Don’t do that,” I scold the photographer.
He grins, then snaps his fingers at his assistant. She produces a handful of photographs she’s printed. Photos I reluctantly take from her. They’re the photos he’s snapped of Sydney and me on the bike.
“It’s not my fault you two look good together,” he says, amused. “I’d do a whole shoot of you guys. If you’re ever interested, here’s my business card.”
I can’t even curse the guy out. I’m so damn shocked and confused that he’s already moved onto photographing the first guests on the display.
You two look good together.
I shake my head. I should’ve known it was a mistake to treat today as a truce.
It doesn’t matter how good Sydney and I look together—or how tempting I find her—she’s a problem I’ve got to get rid of. That’s the bottom line.
* * *
We celebrate that night by throwing an unplanned club party at the saloon. The fundraiser was a huge success and we raked in so much dough, Bush and Mick say we’re set for months. That means we’ve got permission to party like bikers do.
Music blares from the stereo and club girls prance around in the skimpiest outfits. Guys get drunk off their ass and let loose.
