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“How are you doing back there?” We were pulled up to a stoplight. Connor reached down and placed his hands over mine where they were clasped around his waist.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
“All right, I’m going to speed up a bit. The bike smooths out the faster you go.”
I was about to object, but we were already moving again. The countryside rolled by. Bit by bit, I began to relax. He really was right, the motorcycle didn’t seem so wobbly when we were going faster.
I still didn’t feel comfortable sitting all the way up, so I rested my chin on Connor’s shoulder. It was easier to move with him that way. Or, at least, that’s what I told myself as I tightened my grip around his waist. Connor felt solid and sure beneath my hands, and when he took his hand off the clutch to rest it over mine, I felt myself subconsciously relax even further.
Low stone fences sped by. The trees were thicker here, creating a canopy over the road. It must be beautiful here in the fall. I breathed deeply the scent of ocean, wet pine, and new growth, and beneath it all, a darker, sultry spice that was all male. I looked up at Connor and stared at his jawline, the bold curves of his throat. The way the hair along his nape was starting to curl just a bit, like he needed a haircut. I hated that a body so pretty had to house so much danger. I hated the way he smelled, the way he felt between my legs.
I hated that I liked it.
“We should go back,” I shouted. “It looks like it’s going to rain again.”
Connor glanced up at the sky. I hadn’t even looked at it, I just needed off this bike. Now.
“You’re probably right. Hold on.”
He twisted the throttle, and I yelped in surprise as the bike leapt forward. Connor reached down and squeezed my wrist to reassure me. The woods and fields blurred past us. It felt like we were flying. Terrifying. Exhilarating. I squeezed him back, and I felt his cheek stretch curiously against mine in what couldn’t have been a smile. Not from him.
We went even faster.
Connor expertly wound the bike up the drive, downshifting as we coasted into the barn. I could hardly catch my breath, but I didn’t think the ride was completely to blame.
“Looks like you’ve got a taste for it, after all,” he said as he pulled of his helmet. The color was high in his cheeks and his hair hopelessly mussed, and I fought the urge to reach up and fix it.
Instead, I ran my fingers through my own hair, Connor’s dancing eyes following my every move. “Surprisingly enough, I did. I’ve never been on a Harley before.”
“Ach!” Connor made a sound halfway between a retch and a grunt. “Away with you. Don’t desecrate Shelby by calling her a bloody Harley Davidson.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d noticed that Connor’s accent thickened when he was really passionate about something, and it was more than a little endearing. “Wait. I have so many questions—you named the bike?”
“She named herself.” Connor’s lips twitched up in a crooked little grin. “She whispered it in my ear whilst I was fixin’ her up.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“No, it’s true.” That grin of his was doing something to me. “Next time you see Tommy, ask him to introduce you to Diana.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “Okay, so ifShelbyisn’t a Harley, then what is she?”
“Sheis a 1974 Norton Commando Mk2 Roadster.”
He said it like that meant something to me. “Say what, now?”
Connor snorted. “She’s a high-performance British motorbike. Four stroke, parallel twin cylinder engine with 829 cc displacement and a top speed of 125 mph. They don’t make them anymore, but back in its day, this baby would easily outstrip a Harley in a hill climb.”
“Okay, okay,” I raised my hands in surrender. “You sound like me geeking out over medical journals.”
“We all have our hobbies.”
“So, why this bike in particular?”
“Da had one just like it.” Connor’s expression shifted into something more bittersweet than nostalgic. He smoothed his palm over the handlebars. “Cost him a pretty penny too. These bikes were much harder to come by than your BSAs’ or Enfields’, even a Ducati. But God, did he love that bike. The thing looked like it had been through the wrecker when he bought it, but we fixed it up together. He’s the one who taught me how to ride.”
I smiled at his obvious fondness. “Do your parents still live in Ireland?”
“No.” His features darkened, icing over. “They were killed when I was sixteen.”
