I turned my head, just enough to meet his eyes. “A motorcycle ride?”
His grin deepened. “Yeah. I want to take you out. A proper date. You, me, a stretch of road. Maybe a place with pie.”
I blinked up at him, heart thudding, caught off guard by how much the idea made me feel ... giddy. Like a teenager being asked out for the first time. “A date?”
His thumb stroked the curve of my hip. “Yes, a date. You’ve been letting me hang around your house and paint my nails with your daughter, so I figure I should try to romance you a little.”
I smiled slowly. “Well, when you put it like that.”
His lips quirked. “Is that a yes?”
I nodded, holding his gaze. “It might be.”
He rolled on top of me as my smile grew, his mouth brushing mine, fingers sliding down my waist like he already knew I’d said yes.
“We’ve got time before I wow you with my pie-selection skills,” he whispered, voice gravel and heat, “so I’m going to vote for option two.”
I arched beneath him as he nudged my thighs apart with his knee, the sheet slipping away. He reached down, guiding himself between my legs with a tenderness that only made it hotter.
He stretched me slow and reverent, like every time was its own kind of worship.
And when his cock finally filled me—deep and warm, his forehead pressed to mine—I knew I’d say yes to him a thousand times over.
I didn’t remember fallingasleep, but at some point we were both thoroughly fucked and his breath slowed against my neck. Mine quickly followed.
We must’ve drifted off tangled together, skin warm against skin, because the next time I opened my eyes, golden light had deepened to soft amber. The shadows stretched longer across the floor. Outside the window, the breeze swayed the oak tree, shaking off dry leaves into the yard.
Austin stirred beneath me, groaning as he stretched.
“That was ... productive,” he muttered, voice still rough from sleep.
I smiled against his shoulder. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
He chuckled, then pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Productive. Enlightening. Nap adjacent.”
I rolled to my side and propped myself on an elbow, the sheet clinging to my chest. “Is a motorcycle date still on the table?”
He tilted his head toward the window. “Looks like perfect riding weather.”
My heart fluttered again—an involuntary little thrill I didn’t bother to tamp down this time.
Ten minutes later I was sliding into jeans and a soft Henley, watching him zip his jeans up over bare skin.
He caught me looking, and that crooked smile of his kicked up in one corner. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek. “Just appreciating the view.”
His eyes swept over me in return, warm and intoxicating in a way that made me feel claimed without ever saying a word. “I’ll grab the helmets.”
We roared out of town with the sun low behind us, wind in our hair and laughter in our throats. The bike was old and loud, but steady beneath us. The rumble of it pressed between my thighs, and Austin’s body was warm against mine. I clung to him, arms wrapped snug around his middle, and let myself lean in. Trusting the turn. Trusting him.
The road twisted along the edge of the lake, flanked by trees turning orange and red, leaves tumbling across the shoulder in lazy spirals. Every time he took a curve, I felt the shift of his muscles, the subtle lean that told me he’d done this a thousand times.
And yet, when we pulled into the little diner he’d mentioned—hand-painted sign out front boasting “Homemade Pie, Hot Coffee, No Nonsense”—he turned off the engine and sat there for a second, hands still gripping the bars.
The bell above the door jingled as we stepped into the diner, the kind of place that smelled like burned coffee, fryer oil, and cinnamon. The booths were vinyl, the tabletops scuffed from years of elbows and gossip and lazy Sunday mornings. An older woman behind the counter gave us a once-over and a knowing smile, like she already knew what kind of date this was.
We slid into a corner booth, his knee bumping mine under the table.
