He held out a big, clunky-looking helmet and interrupted her quite happily. “Give me your glasses.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” she snapped, yanking the helmet out of his hands. She eyed it suspiciously, then studied the motorbike compartment he’d pulled it out of. The compartment that also doubled as a seat. Hmm. That didn’t suggest the sort of structural integrity she typically desired in a vehicle.
“Glasses might not fit under the helmet,” he said mildly. “It’s full-face. You know, to reduce the chances of brain decimation.”
She snorted, was silent for a moment as she studied the helmet. Then, in a fit of irritation, she muttered, “Don’t act as though it hasn’t crossed your mind.”
Something hot and wild sparked in his gaze, a sort of sharp-edged teasing that reminded her of a wolf on the hunt. He leaned toward her over the bike and asked, “As though what hasn’t crossed my mind?”
She shivered slightly, despite the thermal vest under her clothes and the jacket she’d picked up from her flat. And she remembered what had happened in his bedroom, when she’d fallen on top of him like a ninny, and sparks of sheer sensation had taken over her entire body. After a shamefully long silence, she blurted, “Brain decimation. The risk of brain decimation has definitely crossed your mind.”
He gave her a crooked smile that seemed, for a moment, oddly triumphant. Then he straightened, shrugged, running a hand through all that glorious, sunset hair. “I don’t let myself worry about that. If I die, I die. Could happen on this bike if I’m not careful or my luck blows. Could happen tomorrow morning if I trip and fall in the shower.” He grabbed his own helmet. “You still in? It’s okay if you’re not.”
She swallowed down her instinctive response, the worries she never voiced. Things like I could get hit by a drunk driver in broad daylight while walking down the street. I could fall in the shower, not by chance, but because that’s what I do. I fall sometimes. I could fall right now, and hit my head, and die.
Except, if she fell right now, she had the oddest feeling Red wouldn’t let her hit the ground.
She took off her glasses, turning his face into a pretty haze of pale cream and red-gold. “I’m in.”
“Good.” She could hear the grin in his voice. While she shoved on the helmet, he put her glasses . . . somewhere. The fact that she didn’t know exactly where, and didn’t really care, was testament to her new footloose and fancy-free attitude. She’d been right about her plan, about her list: the process of completing each task involved multiple adjustments in attitude and countless bite-sized moments of bravery, and those would all add up. By the time she finished, she’d have more than check marks and a few stories to tell.
She’d have a life.
The world beneath the helmet was strange and insulated, and her lack of sight didn’t help, but Red talked to her. Like he knew she’d need some kind of guiding light, some reassurance. He said, “I’m touching you now,” and then he did. His hands began fiddling with her helmet, adjusting it until it felt more comfortable. Then he zipped up her jacket. The action was brisk, over in a second, but it felt weirdly intimate in a way that made her stomach dip.
Which was silly. So, so silly. Who cared if he’d zipped up her coat? That was something parents did for their children. Clearly, he thought of her as a child. Which annoyed her on multiple levels, a few of which she didn’t feel comfortable examining right now.
He, of course, was completely unaffected throughout her mental debate. “All you need to do,” he said, with his typical mix of easygoing authority, “is keep your feet on the rests and hold on to me. I’ll get on first and hit the throttle. It’s loud. Don’t freak out.”
Apparently, despite witnessing her Lara Croft–like tree climbing the other day, he still thought she was the sort of woman who needed to be warned about loud noises. Depressingly, he was right.
He straddled the bike, and she wondered absently if he might be persuaded to straddle her. Purely so that she could cross item number five, meaningless sex, off of her list. She dismissed that rogue thought instantly, however; Redford wasn’t a suitable candidate. Aside from the fact that his hotness was vaguely terrifying, she couldn’t sleep with men who were clients, or men who lived just across the courtyard, or men who already knew certain things about her health and would therefore nervously reject all advances as if her vaginal canal were made of glass.
The bike roared to life like an angry lioness. She managed not to jump and was very proud of herself.
“Get on,” Red told her.
She held her skirt down awkwardly as she swung one leg over the chrome beast. And then, there she was, sitting casually on a motorbike. It thrummed, huge and hot and weighty, between her thighs. And right in front of her was Redford, his back looking extraordinarily broad in black leather. She wasn’t sure if she was intimidated or aroused. She checked in with her nether regions and discovered that she was both. Righto, then.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, Red’s long, strong fingers wrapped around her calf and she almost fainted. He squeezed and something inside her clenched. Okay, not “something”: her pussy. Good Lord. Then she realized abruptly that he was trying to tell her something. Right, yes, she was paying attention. She was a Very Good Chloe and she was taking this Extremely Seriously.
Gosh, his hands were big.
“Right there,” he shouted, and squeezed her calf, and let go. Boo. But at least she understood what he meant: Keep your feet where they are, right on those convenient little rest things I mentioned. As if she’d forget. She’d be following his disgracefully minimal instructions to the letter, thank you very much.
Then he reached back, caught one of her hands, and pulled. Next message, presumably: Hold on to me. He didn’t need to remind her of that, either; she’d watched enough teen romance films to know how one behaved on the back of a hot guy’s motorbike. She committed fully, shuffling closer to wrap her arms around his waist, lacing her fingers over his taut abs. She’d seen those abs naked. He wouldn’t be giving her a ride if he knew that, now would he?
Guilt whirled in her stomach, making her feel slightly nauseous and extremely evil. It was wrong of her, to let him treat her so nicely when she knew he had reason to despise her—actual reason, rather than misunderstandings and awkwardness. She should confess. She had to. It was the right thing to do.
“Ready?” he shouted.