“I’m not worried,” I lied.
Ruby gave me a look that said she didn’t buy it. “Yeah, well. For what it’s worth, he’s never let anyone on that bike before. Not once that I know of.”
My stomach did something strange, half flutter, half ache. “Why not?”
“Guess you’ll have to ask him.” Ruby smiled faintly. “Or don’t. Sometimes the mystery’s safer.”
I didn’t answer. I just slung the strap over my shoulder and stepped out into the cooling night.
Chain stood by the curb, leaning against the bike, arms crossed, patient. The streetlight made his eyes shine and caught the hard line of his jaw.
“Took you longer than I expected,” he said.
“Had a conversation I didn’t plan on having,” I murmured, pulling on the helmet.
“Everything alright?”
“Fine.” I climbed on behind him, the seat warm beneath me. My hands hesitated before finding his sides.
“Hold on,” he said, voice deep enough to vibrate through me.
The engine roared to life, loud and alive, and as the bike surged forward, I let the wind steal whatever words were left in me. Because Ruby was right—Chain didn’t seem like a man who shared his ride. And that meant whatever this was, I suspected was starting to mean more than either of us expected.
***
THE NIGHT AIRhit against my face as Chain pulled onto the road, the rumble of the bike sinking deep into my bones. I clung to him because I had to, not because I wanted to, but that lie didn’t hold long.
The engine’s growl swallowed the night. I held on behind him, pulse a wild drum in my throat. The wind tore at my hair, warm and hard against my cheeks, but all I could feel was him. The heat from his back. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The power in the machine he commanded like it was part of him.
He leaned into the curve of the road, and instinct made me press closer, thighs tightening against him, chest flush to his spine. His body went rigid for half a second, barely noticeable unless you were paying attention. And I was.
The air between us changed after that.
Every shift, every movement, felt deliberate. When he slowed to take the turn onto the long stretch leading to the clubhouse, his hand brushed my knee, guiding it closer to the bike’s frame. The touch was firm, not suggestive, but it burned all the same.
“Better,” he said, his voice carried back through the wind.
“Didn’t realize I was doing it wrong.”
“You weren’t,” he said, and I felt his chuckle more than I heard it. “Just keeping you close.”
Close. He said it with heat attached to it.
The ride had passed way to quickly. I wanted to memorize it, the smell of leather and and his cologne, the slide of my fingers against the rough leather of his cut, the way I could feel his heartbeat when we hit a straightaway and the world fell away.
When he finally pulled into the compound, neither of us moved right away. The engine idled, the air between us charged and close. I could see the faint outline of his jaw when he turned his head, the corner of his mouth curving like he was fighting a thought best left unsaid.
“You can let go now,” he murmured, but there was a rough edge in it—like he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted me to.
“Right,” I said softly, though my hands didn’t move until the bike cut off. The silence that followed felt too intimate, too aware.
I swung off the seat, unsteady on my legs. When I handed him the helmet, our fingers brushed again, a spark that had no business feeling that real.
“Thanks for the ride,” I managed.
His gaze caught mine, unwavering, unreadable. “You’re welcome.” A pause. Then, quieter—“You did good today.”
It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
