“And three, becauseI fuckingsaid so, woman,” he growls.
My breath catches in my throat and I hit his upper back. “Put me down!”
Sean carries me the rest of the way, and everyone in the vicinity is watching us as he sets me down beside his bike. My chest heaves as I push my hair back off my face and look up at him.
“Now,” he commands, passing me a helmet and climbing onto his bike. I wait all of five seconds before I take it from him, like an absolute fucking lunatic who clearly needs her head checked. Then I huff out a breath and clip it onto my head, because Idowant to get on the back of his bike instead of on that bus … I just don’t want to admit it.
“You don’t even know where I live,” I fire at him, but then I hear the deep rumble of his chuckle again as he ignores my comment.
Right. Of course he knows where I live.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Layla
Being on the back of Sean’s custom Harley is a sensation I simply wasn’t prepared for. He tells me where to put my feet and what not to touch because it’s hot. When I take my place behind him, his heavy hands squeeze the outsides of my knees and he tugs me closer in one fluid movement. I let out a little yelp with the action, and when he’s satisfied with my position, he pats one hand on my leg and then moves it up to his grip. Another caveman-like action that doesn’t fail to make my heart rate sputter. There’s just something so unabashedly masculine about him. So sure and confident. When he starts his bike, my arms wrapped around his firm waist, the heavy, methodic rumble is almost comforting. But the way it feels when I lean my head against him and breathe in his sinful scent is intoxicating, and for this one moment, I give in. It actually feels good to have someone to lean on. My breasts press into his back, and the warm leather of his cut brushes my cheek. I’m holding on tight but not tight enough that it could ever hurt a man of his size, so I find it confusing when I feel him tense under my arms. I know enough about the human body from my studies to know he’sharboring some kind of pain in his lower back. I remember the scar I felt under my fingers and wonder what happened to him.
Sean reaches back and slides his open palm from the top of my thigh all the way down to my knee, giving it a light squeeze before he lets go, and I shudder from the steadying gesture.
“I’ve got you. Let’s fly, little dove.” He gives me one slow smirk over his shoulder, and the completely fucked-up thing is, I know hedoeshave me.
The wind whips my hair around my shoulders as I watch city workers water the hanging baskets of flowers on the lampposts outside the quaint little shops that make Harmony a summer destination. I must admit that this is worlds better than taking the bus. But I know I’ve thoroughly lost my mind getting on his bike when Sean passes the turnoff for my street. I panic for a moment when I realize I don’t know where he’s taking me, but a few blocks later he backs his bike into an open spot in front of The Henhouse, a charming lunch bistro off Main, and pops his kickstand.
“What are we doing?” I ask, working at the clip on my helmet as I get off the bike. Sean follows suit and stops my fingers from fumbling. He undoes the clip gently and pulls the helmet from my head, letting it hang from his grip.
“We’re eating.”
“I was going to go home and have leftovers and a bath,” I tell him.
“No leftovers.” His eyes simmer behind his words. “I’m buying you lunch.”
I look up at his face—the look he’s wearing isn’t stern, but his eyes are, and I am starving. All I had a chance to eat this morning before I left was Greek yogurt. He probably somehow knows that too.
Sean leads me with a hand on the small of my back to a booth. This isn’t the type of place where you wait to be seated.Thankfully he’s behind me, so he can’t see that the moment his hand connected with my back my nipples hardened to points. As if my body is addicted to his touch exactly the way he thinks it is. I clear my throat and try to get it together, sliding into the booth across from him.
“People don’t just meet and do things like this, you know. It’s unstable behavior,” I tell him, picking up the menu from the table and beginning to flip through it.
He doesn’t pick his up, he just leans back and watches me. I run my eyes over the choices and try not to feel the heat from his gaze. It’s an impossible feat.
“Says who?” he asks.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Who says it’s unstable to know what I want?”
“Everyone.”
“Everyonedoesn’t have to live my life, or yours, so fuck them,” he tosses back.
I don’t really know what to say in response, but I’m saved by the server as she approaches the table. She’s maybe my age, with long dark hair and ocean-colored eyes. She sort of looks like my high school best friend, Brinley, who lives in Atlanta, only not quite as soft and innocent-looking.
“The usual, Ax?” she says as she eyes me up, then turns her pretty eyes back to him. He doesn’t even look up at her.
“Yep,” he says. “Two of them, and one San Pell and one coconut water,” he adds.
Now I know he’s a stalker if he knows I used to drink San Pellegrino when I could afford it.
He takes the menu from me and hands both his and mine to the server.
