“Half hour enough time?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He leans down and pecks a quick kiss on my lips. “See ya in thirty.”
I watch him walk away, his confident stride making my pulse race all over again. When he finally disappears around the side of the house, I press my hands to my burning cheeks.
“What the hell just happened?”
***
A knock on my door sends my heart into my throat. I smooth my hands down the sides of my jeans, suddenly feeling nervous.
Ready or not, here he is.
I open the door, and there stands Dread on my porch. He’s wearing a black Harley Davidson t-shirt that looks vintage, a dark pair of jeans that mold to his thick thighs like a second skin, his black biker boots, and his leather vest with the patches on it.
I look down at myself and wonder if I’m overdressed. While Dread went home to shower, I made a mad dash around the house—shaving my legs and underarms, curling my hair, putting on makeup, and changing into my jeans with the rhinestones on the pockets. I added my red Jessica Simpson boots that I found at the Goodwill on Kernan Boulevard and my red sparkly off-the-shoulder blouse.
“Fuck.”
My eyes jump to Dread. “What’s wrong?”
He motions to my outfit.
Damn. I knew I overdid it.
“Baby, you look good enough to eat.”
Oh.That wasn’t what I expected.
My cheeks warm under his appreciative gaze. “Th-thank you.” I bite my lip. “You look nice too.”
He grins at me, showing off his perfect straight teeth.
Holy crap on a cracker, the man has a lethal smile.I’m pretty sure my panties just went up in smoke.
“Ready?”
I turn and lock the door, then look back at him with a smile. “Ready.”
Dread drapes an arm around my shoulders and leads me down the driveway. I notice his motorcycle is parked behind my van.
“Ever ridden before?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Nothing to it,” he explains. “Just hold onto me, and I’ll do all the work.”
He hands me a helmet, and I put it on. His fingers brush against my neck as he fastens the chin strap, sending tingles down my spine. Then he hands me a pair of sunglasses. “Keep the wind outta your eyes.”
I slide them on my face and watch as he throws a long leg over the seat of his motorcycle, the muscles in his thighs flexing beneath his jeans.
“Where’s your helmet?” I ask, suddenly worried.
He puts on a pair of Oakley sunglasses and grins. “I’ll be fine.”
He points to a metal peg on the side of the bike. “Put your left foot there, then throw your right leg over.”
