He steps closer, lips parted in mischief. “Is that an offer, Attorney Anders?”
“I mean, if you’re up for it.” I break off, suddenly embarrassed.
Nash’s voice is velvet, just above a whisper. “I’m up for anything with you.”
Nash tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and for a second, his thumb lingers at my cheekbone.
“God, I really like you,” he says, and the words nearly knock the air out of me.
He puts on his helmet and mounts the bike, then offers his hand to me. I take it, straddling the seat behind him. This time, when I wrap my arms around his waist, I’m not afraid. I’m excited.
He takes us through the winding streets until we’re out near the old state park, the one that’s been abandoned since the city ran out of funds. There’s a parking lot half-swallowed by weeds, and he pulls in, headlights slicing through the dark.
He kills the engine, but keeps his hands on the bars for a moment.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
He yanks his helmet off, dropping it onto the grass with a thud. I fumble mine off, too, and the air is suddenly thick with the smell of leather, sweat, and whatever sweet aftershave Nash wears.
I slide forward, pressing myself flush against his back. “Very sure.”
He steps off the bike only to get back on facing me, and even in the moonlight I can see his pupils blown wide. He shifts, angling toward me on the seat, and our knees knock together. He slides his hand up my thigh, thumb stroking the inside until I forget how to breathe.
I kiss him, all hunger and need. He responds instantly, hands cupping my jaw, my waist, anywhere he can claim. I bury my face in his neck and bite gently, and he groans, grabbing a handful of my ass to pull me closer. I’m barely balanced on the seat, but it just makes me cling tighter.
I gasp when his hand moves under my dress, his palm warm on my bare skin, and I rock against him instinctively, desperate for more.
I break the kiss just long enough to say, “Tell me what to do.”
He inhales sharply, like he’s never wanted anything more.
Nash grins, hungry and wicked. He leans back against the gas tank, eyes on me as he unzips his pants and pulls himself out.
“Come here,” he says, gently pulling me onto his lap. “Move your panties to the side. Now grab the handlebars, slide that pretty pussy down my cock, and ride it.”
I do as I’m told, my hands clutching at the bars, knuckles whitening. The dress bunches at my hips, and Nash’s gaze is molten, drinking in every inch of skin I show him.
He guides me down, one hand at my hip, the other bracing himself behind. When he slides inside, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. I rock forward, the friction exquisite, and the world tunnels to just the points of contact: my thighs around his, his hands on my body, him inside me.
Nash groans and tips his head back, exposing his throat.
“Fuck, Avery,” he rasps. “Fuck.”
I let myself fall into the rhythm, the slow grind of my hips, and it’s wild how good it feels.
“Don’t get shy on me now,” he says, his lips brushing my ear. “I want to hear you.”
“Nash, we’re—what if someone—” I start, suddenly breathless.
“Nobody’s coming out here. And if they do, let ‘em watch.”
The bike rocks beneath us.
“Yes,” I moan, shameless and needy. “God, Nash, yes!”
He slaps my ass, the sting making me clench harder around him.
“You feel—” he rasps, and I hear him grit his teeth. “God, you feel so fucking good,” and the words are so raw I almost lose it right there.
