His grin should warn me. He pulls out another jacket from underneath two helmets and winks.
"You knew?" I accuse.
"I may or may not have overheard certain brats betting who would look hotter in my jacket," he admits, unable to hide his smugness.
"Now I really, really hate you," I say even as I pull his enormous jacket closer around me.
Raf leans forward, his breath hot against my ear, "I've always wanted you to wear it."
And just like that, my knees turn to jelly.
Next, he lifts a sleek black helmet and fits it over my head with such care that it makes my heart stumble. His voice comes through the little mic inside, low and coaxing, "You’ll be safe with me. Always."
"I can’t?—"
"You can," he counters softly. Then he swings a leg over the machine, and the leather of his other jacket stretches across his shoulders. He looks made for this, the very image of sin and steel. My heart hammers even as he reaches out a gloved hand toward me.
I stare at it. Then at him. Then, at the beast purring under him.
He tilts his head, and his grin softens into something more tender. "Try. For me."
For him? I’d wade through lava. Before I can think better of it, my fingers slip into his. He pulls me forward, steadies me as I swing a trembling leg over the bike. He helps me settle onto the seat behind him, then guides my arms around his waist until I’m plastered against his back.
The leather of his jacket is cool under my cheek. His body is warm, solid, every inch of him a wall between me and the ground.
"Alright," I whisper, my voice cracking. "But go slow, okay?"
Through the mic, I hear his laugh—low, wicked, fond. "Sure, baby."
He kicks the machine alive, and the roar of the Ducati swallows everything. The vibration shoots up through me, rattling my bones, making me cling tighter. And then?—
The world lurches.
From zero to eighty in the span of a heartbeat, the bike eats the road like a predator unleashed. Wind tears at my hair where it spills beneath the helmet, the trees blur into streaks of green and brown, and my stomach drops straight into my shoes.
I scream, clutching him tighter, my nails digging into the leather at his ribs. He laughs again, and the sound is carried back to me over the roar. "Hold on, bella mia!"
As if I could ever let go.
At first, I can’t do anything but cling, my helmet pressed hard against his back, every muscle locked tight. My heart slams like it wants to escape my chest, but then?—
The Ducatileans.
The world tilts with it, and suddenly the ground is rushing by so close I swear I could touch it with my fingertips. My breath catches—half terror, half awe—as the bike curves, bends, then straightens again with effortless power. And it happens again. And again. Each lean draws me tighter against him, forces my body to move with his, to trust his balance, his strength.
It should scare me. But it doesn’t.
Something stirs inside me instead.
It’s almost like sex, the way our bodies fit together, the way he leads and I follow, the way the machine vibrates between my legs, raw and alive. Every shift, every tilt, every surge forward, it feels intimate, primal.
Curiosity wins out over fear. I peel my head from his back and force myself to look around. The trees blur into emerald streaks, the sky overhead a boundless gray canvas split by shards of sunlight. The road unspools beneath us, endless and fast.
And then I do something I never thought I could again.
I laugh.
The sound bursts out of me, sharp at first, then fuller, rising like a song I thought I’d forgotten. I tilt my head back, and the wind bites at my throat; the world rushes past so quickly I can barely breathe it in.
