“Damn,” I whispered under my breath, taking in the Mercedes, Range Rover, Escalade, BMW, Bentley, Ferrari and several other European cars I didn’t get to check out. What I did see, the items that stopped me in my tracks, had me glued to the concrete, were the six hottest, sex on wheels I’d ever seen.
BMW HP2 Sport - white with blue rims and an 1170 engine. I might have wet myself at that point. Then there was an MV Agusta F4 1000 the only bike in the world to have a radial valved engine. I twisted around, let go of the handle on my suitcase and traced the third bike’s sexy as fuck seat. The Icon Sheene all black with shiny chrome. I caressed it the way a lover would, with one finger tip, tracing its rounded curves and bold edge design. This bike cost over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Fuck me. No really, I need to fuck on this bike.
Air, I needed air! I gasped and crouched down, still not capable of taking my eyes off the pretty. Sweet baby, come to Mama. I could happily live in this garage, just staring at the bikes of my dreams.
“Um, hello? Earth to Mia? What the hell are you doing?”
Her voice came through, but I didn’t answer. It was like a pesky mosquito that no matter how many times you swatted it away it kept coming back.
I slowly stood, sucked in a replenishing breath, and scanned down the line once more. An orange and black sick, tricked out KTM Super Duke was hanging out at the back of the line. Probably the most affordable of the lot, definitely on my list of amazing bikes I might one day be able to afford. “Whose bikes are these?” I asked, my voice having dropped an octave, in awe at the pure hot sex on two wheels.
“Anton’s. This is his building. His music studio is here, dance club, gym, and of course, the Penthouse is his home. The rest of his team each have an apartment in the building as well. You’ve even got your own loft apartment we use for visiting celebrities, or folks who are working on one of his albums.
“Does he ride the bikes?”
She grinned. “Bike enthusiast, huh?”
“You could say that.” I had to force the words out, even though I hadn’t yet ripped my gaze from the line of man-made beauty.
“Maybe he’ll take you for a ride.”
That got my attention. “A ride.” She nodded, her smile so pretty it could be on advertisements selling products across the globe. “Fuck that. I don’t ride bitch, honey; I drive.”
***
Heather gave me all of fifteen minutes to freshen up before she was going to take me down to meet Anton. I jumped in the shower, washed off the day’s travel grime, and spotted the outfit she’d laid out. Outfit was too strong a description. What was sitting on the bed for me was a scrap of fabric, a pair of booty shorts and stilettos that crisscrossed up the entire length of my calf to the knee. I slid on the shorts and checked the hemline in the mirror. A swath of ass cheek was clearly visible to any discerning eye. Fuck me. Turning to the front, the shorts were cut so high the lining of the pocket stuck out the bottom. The tank was cute. It was blousy, tied together by two thin ribbons at each shoulder. Closing my eyes I counted to ten and gave myself a pep talk.
You can do this Mia.
Just over a month ago you were traipsing around in a bikini with Tai and the modeling team. This is actually more clothing than that. Plus, you’re not here for your stellar morals in decency, you’re here to look hot and be a love interest in a rock video. Er, a hip-hop video. A groan slipped out of my mouth as I pulled my hair up into a ponytail. It felt like a million degrees, or maybe my own internal temperature had hit a hundred.
Breathing slowly through my nose and out my mouth I stood and walked out to the living space. Heather was there taking a call. Her eyes took in my outfit from the tip of my toes to my hair. When she got to my head an ugly frown marred her face. Never taking her ear off the phone she moved to me, tugged on the hair tie and let the thick strands tumble around my shoulders. “Better,” she whispered while fluffing it this way and that. Then she snapped her fingers and walked to the door.
“Did you just fucking snap at me?” The easy comradery that we’d had in the car ride from the airport was blown to bits.
Heather had the good grace to look chagrinned. “Sorry,” she mouthed. “Yes Anton, I’ve got her now.” The words held irritation as if it was a physical thing you could toss up in the air and catch on a whim. “We’ll meet you in the dance room. Yes, five minutes.”
“Mia, I’m sorry. He gets me all twisted in a knot. Unfortunately, he’s on a bit of a tear. Didn’t mean to be rude. Apparently the backup dancers sucked, couldn’t move if they had bees in their underpants.”