For once helmetless, I relish the stinging bite of the wind on my face. Like Ana, I can appreciate the freedom of anonymity, and the helmet is an unfortunate accessory to this. Not only that, but helmet laws vary by state as does the level of enforcement. I'm confident that I can outrun the boys in blue, but sometimes it's better to err on the side of caution. Once my mission is complete, I can ride as recklessly as I want to. I doubt I'll survive that long, but it's a nice thought. Dying by fire on the road gives me something to look forward to.
I keep my eyes trained forward now, even as my attention continues to want to be dragged elsewhere. The heat of another body pressed against mine is proving more distracting than I had first imagined. It's not as if I've never ridden with anyone before; plenty of women have hopped on and off again, and I've left them in the dust of the road. It's how they prefer it, and it's how I prefer it—a perfect arrangement.
Ana's arms, by contrast, are arranged imperfectly. My stomach muscles coil beneath the tight band of her arms in tense, silent revolt against the woman's inexperience. I take one of my hands away from the handlebars only long enough to reach down and grab hold of her left arm, readjusting it to rest atop the other. A firm press from my gloved hand reinforces the idea that she needs to hold on to me tightly if she doesn't want to chance falling off the back and spilling herself and her belongings out on the empty stretch of road behind me.
The speedometer registers in the triple digits now. This sort of speed is nothing new to me, although I usually toe the line in new territories. Again, chancing a run-in with the cops is more of an inconvenience at this point than borne of any real fear of the law. Let them come after me, and see what that gets them. The law has failed me and will continue to fail me, so long as I don't wrest it into my own hands.
Speaking of my own hands, I'm still driving with only one at my disposal; the other presses against the slender arms wrapped around me. I allow myself a moment, if only a fleeting one, to relish the pressure of another's embrace. The touch of this woman inspires a heat to flare up in my belly as hot as the forge housed within the engine we ride astride.
I feel her shift behind me in response. And those legs… God, those long legs that had been the object of my fixation back at the bar are around me now, tensing and sliding, unaccustomed to the exact positioning required. I drag my hand away to settle it atop her left thigh, and feel her arms constrict around me even tighter in response. It's possible she's signaling me that she is uncomfortable with the touch—that, or she just noticed I'm driving one-handed, and doesn't like flying down the road with what she perceives to be so little control. I'm behind the wheel, though, and I call the shots.
I grip the lean meat of her thigh, just above her knee, and shift her leg up once, hard, to let her know I mean business. She needs to stop moving around like this is a carnival ride and respect the bike; not only that, I need her to trust me, in whatever capacity she can manage in whatever amount of time it takes to get us to get to our destination.
Ana clenches her legs, and even with the roaring of the wind and bike, I feel a low growl rumble in my sternum. She's so close I'm sure she can feel it, but maybe she won't realize she's the reason for this animalistic uprising.
I want to know what she's thinking. A single conversation at the bar isn't enough.
And I want to know if she feels this unbearable heat between us.
CHAPTER 3
ANA
I really didn't expect this night to end with a man between my legs.
As I fly down the road on the back of the mysterious Flint's bike, I can't help but flush at my phrasing as I describe the situation to myself. It's nothing like that, I reason. He offered me a quick escape from a dangerous situation, and I took it—nothing more. There's nothing at all provocative about our situation, nothing to be musing on as his hands subdue my nervous shifting and yank me closer to him.
I wish I could see his face. Does it always feel this sexy to ride astride a motorcycle, or are our circumstances unusual? Somehow, I feel that it's the latter…but I can't be satisfied that we both feel it. I've been on the road for a while on my own, but even this is a new experience for me—the heat, the pressure, the speed. The danger of so little protection and the absolute control Flint exercises in ensuring our safety. I'm almost not sure I want it to end.
My uncertainty lasts for as long as it takes for the first drop of rain to splash down across my thigh. I turn my head from the alcove provided by Flint's shoulders to stare at it appraisingly; it's cold, but I think that maybe it's a fluke. Then again, as I turn my head up to assess the clouds—roiling black clouds overhead—maybe not.
It's as if my uncertainty summons the rain. The sky opens up and starts pouring in earnest, with nothing in the way of warning except for that first lonely drop. Soon it's driving down so hard that I can scarcely see. I crane my head to look over Flint's shoulder at the road, and it's like trying to see through a gray screen. I don't know if his visibility is as poor as mine is in these conditions, but he shows no signs of slowing the bike, even with this seemingly added danger. My pulse races in fear now, so fast that it seems to echo on the inside of the helmet. At least I have the visor to keep the rain off my face and out of my eyes. How does Flint see anything? I want to tap him on the shoulder to signal to slow down, but I'm afraid to distract his attention from driving. Instead, I settle for tightening my arms around his waist, and musing on thoughts as dark as the clouds that loom overhead. If we survive this kamikaze run through the storm, I vow to undress him. Verbally, of course.
Speaking of clothes, ours aren't faring too well. Even though he's driving without a helmet, Flint is a lot better dressed for this than I am. The rain falls sideways against my bare arms and jean-clad legs like needles, as if I'm at the mercy of some sadistic acupuncturist who likes to dip her needles in ice water before driving them into my skin. Soon my jeans are soaking wet, dark with the accumulation of rainwater, and my shirt is plastered to my chest.
I'm just starting to think I can't take much more of this when Flint wrenches the motorcycle suddenly, like a wrangler taking an aggressive steer by the horns. I bite down on a cry of surprise and clutch onto him with all my might as we lean into a sharp left. The headlights cut a swatch of golden light through the night, but all I can see is rain, rain, and more rain. I'm afraid I'll drown before we reach shelter.
All at once the front face of a motel looms up before us. It looks like something out of a horror movie, but I think it must have to do with the weather, and the fact that it must be well past midnight. Relief washes over me at the sight of a building with a roof over it. I feel it almost as acutely as the rain.
Flint sweeps us up to the curb and slows; he thrusts out one leg to stabilize the bike as I cling to him, trembling. I clench my jaw to keep it from chattering, even though I'm fairly sure he won't be able to hear anything with the helmet muting all conversation.
"Wait here." He glowers at me from beneath his dark, dripping hair, but I think it's more an expression betraying his own discomfort than any remonstration aimed toward me. I nod my head to show that I understand. The minute his back is turned, I wrap my arms around myself and succumb to violent, almost child-like shivering. He passes through the doors to the front desk to consult with the night clerk, leaving me stranded and alone outside.