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She flinches. I need to work on speaking more respectfully, but it’s difficult to speak to her at all. If I let out how I really feel for a moment, there’s a danger I’ll let itallout. I’ll tell her she better get in that bedroom and bend over right away, show me her curvy ass, and get ready for me to turn it red with possessive spanks.
“I’m fine,” she replies. “I just wanted to know if you’re cool with me tagging along. That’s all.”
Truthfully, no. Hell no. I know that traveling with my woman is a high-risk scenario. If I let my defenses lapse for a second, it’s over. My hands will be all over her. I’ll kiss her like I mean it. I’ll tell her she’s mine, only mine. She’ll never belong to anybody else. It’ll be bad news, but I made a promise.
“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” I say. “Are you having second thoughts?”
She arches an eyebrow at me like she’s trying to imply something. Maybe shedidoverhear. It doesn’t matter. I have to take her.
“N-no,” she says after a pause. “Not if you’re not.”
I step forward, aware Ryan is downstairs. I could reach forward right this second, place my hands on her hips, squeeze, and feel her thickness. She has no idea how wild she’s making me. My body hungers for her touch again, even through the leather jacket. To feel her against me, naked, skin on skin… Fuck, I’m getting hard.
“Good,” I grunt. “Then let’s get going. We’re wasting time.”
“This must be a really important package,” she says.
I turn away. I can’t lie to her again. Though, I should get used to it. It’s not as if I can tell her the truth. This road trip is going to be full of lies. It’s a damn shame, but it’s how it must be.
“I’ll be outside,” I say, heading for the stairs.
“Okay,” she replies. Then, in a quieter voice, she says, “Rude.”
I almost turn and start bantering with her, but it’s better if she sees me as distant, even mean. It’s better than the reality of what’s happening here.
* * *
Now, we’re driving across the dusty plains out of Melusine. The horizon shimmers in the heat. My body is sweaty in my leather, but not from the layers. It’s from her, my Kayla.MyKayla? Jesus. That’s how I think of her now. My Kayla, her arms wrapped around me, squeezing tight.
Every few seconds, I imagine pulling over to the side of the road, pulling her helmet off, kissing her, feeling her, massaging those thick, perfect hips. I have to push these fantasies away, let them thrum at some distant point in the back of my head.
I try to think of her as the little kid lying in bed as I read from one of her books. Mostly, it was to pay the Lewis family back for everything they’d done for me. They liked me reading to her, and I didn’t mind, but I can’t connect the woman clutching onto me with that kid. I know they’re the same person, but it doesn’t feel that way. She seems so different.
Am I a good man? I try to be as much as this life will let me.
I ride for a while, then pull into a gas station just off Route 15. My woman climbs off, stretching her arms above her head. She changed into denim overalls with a leather jacket at the house. Now, she’s a gorgeous, messy-haired biker chick, making her even more attractive than earlier.
“Do you want anything from inside?” she asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
Things are tense between us, far more than I want them to be. I have to keep reminding myself that this awkwardness is the best situation. It’s better than showing how I really feel.
Still, as she walks toward the gas station, I can’t help but stare at her. Her hips move provocatively. She’s not purposefully putting on a show, but in my mind, she is just for me. My fingers twitch like I’m practicing what it will be like, grabbing and massaging her ass.
After I fill the bike, I head into the gas station, the AC blasting me with icy air. Kayla is at the counter, finishing up.
She turns with a bottle of water in her hand, giving me some seriously evil eyes. She must’ve overheard us. Or maybe she was listening intentionally. If that’s the case, I bet she misinterpreted a lot of things.
She walks right by me, her arms folded. The leather jacket is open, showing the top of her overalls. She’s wearing a light T-shirt underneath, and I can just about make out one of her pink bra straps. I’m torn between tearing off her clothes and telling her to zip up the jacket.
At the counter, the cashier smiles. He’s a friendly older man.
“Just the gas,” I say, nodding outside as I reach into my jacket for my wallet.
“For the bike?” the man asks.
