"This should fit."
It doesn't, really. It's too big, sliding around on my head when I try to put it on. But Knox steps closer, and then his hands are on the straps, adjusting them with surprising gentleness. His fingers brush my jaw, my chin, the sensitive skin just below my ears.
I'm too tired to process why that makes my stomach flip. Too tired to examine the way my breath catches when his knuckles graze my throat.
"Ever been on a bike before?"
"No."
"Hold onto me. Lean when I lean. Don't let go."
Simple instructions. I can handle simple instructions.
He swings his leg over the bike like it's nothing, like mounting a thousand-pound machine is as natural as sitting in a chair. The bike barely shifts under his weight. He makes it look easy, effortless, the same way he makes everything look easy.
I climb on behind him with significantly less grace. There's an awkward moment where I'm not sure where to put my legs, then another awkward moment where I nearly slide right off the back. The seat is slick from the rain, and my jeans are still damp, and I'm operating on approximately zero hours of functional sleep.
Knox waits patiently while I fumble myself into position. He doesn't comment on my complete lack of coordination, which I appreciate.
"Where are your hands?"
"I—what?"
"Your hands, Toby." There's a hint of amusement in his voice. "You need to hold on."
Right. Yes. Holding on. I place my hands gingerly on his sides, barely touching, hyperaware of the warmth radiating through his leather jacket.
"That's not holding on."
Before I can respond, he reaches back, grabs both my wrists, and pulls my arms around his waist properly. Firmly. My chest is suddenly pressed against his back, my thighs bracketing his hips, my entire front sealed to his entire back.
"Better," he says.
I make a sound that's probably agreement. It's hard to tell because my brain has gone completely off line.
He's so warm. Even through the leather, even through my damp cardigan, I can feel the heat of him. Solid and steady and alive in a way that makes something in my chest settle. Like holding onto him is the safest thing I've ever done, which is insane because he's a lion shifter and I've known him for approximately four hours.
The bike roars to life beneath us.
The vibration travels up through the seat, through my thighs, up my spine, rattling my teeth and settling somewhere behind my sternum. It's overwhelming for a second—too loud, too much, too everything—and I tighten my grip on Knox's waist involuntarily.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No."
I feel more than hear his laugh, a rumble that I can sense through his back where I'm pressed against him. Then we're moving, pulling out onto the empty street, and the world becomes motion.
Wind whips past us, cold and sharp and smelling like rain. The streetlights blur into streaks of orange and gold. The city looks different at two in the morning—empty streets gleaming with wet pavement, traffic lights cycling through their colors for no one, the occasional cat darting between parked cars. Everything is quiet and strange and somehow beautiful in its abandonment.
Knox takes corners smoothly, leaning into them with a confidence that makes me lean too, matching his movements instinctively. He never goes too fast, never makes any sudden moves, like he knows I'm barely holding it together and is adjusting accordingly. Every shift of his weight is telegraphed clearly enough that I can follow without thinking.
My thighs tighten around his hips as we take a turn. My arms are wrapped so firmly around his waist that I can feel the muscles of his stomach through his shirt. Every breath he takes moves my arms, my chest, my whole body. We're breathing together, moving together, and it feels—
It feels intimate. More intimate than most of the dates I've been on, and we're fully clothed on a motorcycle in the middle of a public street.
Every breath I take is full of him. Leather and something wild, that same scent from the blanket but stronger now, concentrated. It's the smell of a predator, I realize. That's what I couldn't place earlier. Not cologne, not soap, justhim—the animal underneath the human exterior.
I should be afraid. I'm clinging to a lion shifter I met a few hours ago, flying through dark streets on a machine I don't understand, going god knows where because I gave him my address and just trusted he'd actually take me there. Everything about this situation screams danger.
