“So … um … what?”
God, he’s so fucking adorable.
Shaking my head with a smile, I go over the gas and the gears again, this time with his hands on the handlebars. I rest mine just above his, hovering in that space between touching and not and show him how to twist it.
We have to wait a minute for the flooded engine to chill the fuck out before we try again, but when we do … Emmett takes over and has us moving forward with a tentative ease.
“You can go faster if you want,” I yell over the noise. “I’m right here.”
His body trembles between my knees and I focus on the bite of the tail I have I have in a death grip instead of the way he’s slotted against me. The heat of the sun baring down its wrath, instead of how warm the insides of my thighs are.
Fuck.
Emmett takes a turn a little rough and I kick a foot out to keep us balanced as dirt kicks up behind us. He maneuvers us right, but my weight makes the front wheel jitter.
“Can you—justhold me.”
I don’t think that’s what he meant to say with the way his head shakes, but I listen anyway and lean into his back, my hands smoothing over his shoulders. He stiffens at first, then relaxes when the weight change makes it easier to drive.
“You’re heavy.”
I snort. “Thanks, bubs.”
The heat of him seeps through the hoodie.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” I say, cutting him off. “The bike’s harder to ride with a backpack.”
“Backpack,” he mutters just low enough that I almost don’t hear him.
“Or a bitch, depending on who’s talking,” I yell back. “Am I your bitch, Em?”
He goes taut against me and the handlebars shudder in his grip, making the front wheel wobble. He twists more gas for the straight away just as another rider slips in close, making him jerk. It tips the bars too far and I jolt forward to catch them, compensating for the overturn to keep us from tumbling over.
“Um,” he mutters thickly. “Tristen.”
I push out a breath and kick down a gear, getting us back to a reasonable speed.
Fuck that guy.
“Tristen.”
“Yeah, bubs?”
His fingers wiggle next to mine, his stiff spine flat against my chest, and my cock pushes into his lower back.
I’m hard.
So hard.
“Shit, sorry.”
Backing up in the last thing I want, though I arch my hips away from him and settle my ass back in the curve of my seat. Plant my palms back on his shoulders. Swallow back the utterwantcoursing through my veins.
“I-it’s okay,” he mutters finally and steers us back onto the track.
We go on like that in silence for a few laps, a heaviness hanging in the air between us that I can’t explain. It’s dense enough that it consumes me, steals the desire to touch him from me, and when he finally pulls off to the side, I find that I’m panting. My chest is tight. My fingers are going numb.
