Unconcerned, Orion removes his helmet, and I’m met with the fierce current of his ocean-teal eyes, drawn helplessly into their depths. He’s windblown, as wild and unpredictable as the ocean itself, always looking as though he’s made of night and waves.
Amused, he crooks an eyebrow. “Are you impressed?”
I bite the corner of my lip, fighting the urge to smile. Whatever disturbed spark I glimpsed there a moment ago has dissipated, replaced by a heated ember, like stars igniting amid those dark depths.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I say.
“I have,” he admits, not denying the allegation. “But you make it fucking impossible to do so for long.”
My mouth twists. “I’m not letting you out of our arrangement.”
He cocks his head. “Every time I save you, I find myself deeper in trouble, Dr. Holbrook.”
I inhale an aching breath, releasing it with a slight quiver that has nothing to do with the chilly afternoon. Ever observant, Orion notices. He rakes his fingers through his disheveled hair before throwing his leg over. Leaning against the seat, he extends the helmet toward me. “I’ll keep you warm.”
I hold the fierce challenge in his gaze. In psychology, the law of figure-ground shifts our focus in order to offer new perspectives. Such as the “faces or vases” illusion, where distinguishing the object from its background reveals an entirely different image.
The more Orion focuses on me as his object of obsession, the more the surrounding threats blur, dissolving into the abstract image. He doesn’t perceive the danger.
It’s the figure—the object itself—that controls the illusion.
And yet, as the powerful current in his eyes threatens to drag me past the boundary of safety, I sense the object of my desire shifting just as dangerously.
I can’t lose focus.
Fortifying my defenses, I step forward and take hold of the helmet.
The captivating smile that breaks across his face clenches my heart, right before he gives the helmet a hard tug, pulling me toward him and eliminating the remaining distance between us.
Standing between his parted legs, I unconsciously brace my hand to his thigh, and he doesn’t tense at my touch.
He reaches down, sliding the umbrella strap from my wrist. He looks it over, gloved thumb sweeping the black steel handle as he says, “This is a nice umbrella,” before he secures it in his pack.
My lips twitch. “It’s a little arrogant to complement your own tastes, Dr. Night.”
There’s the briefest draw to his features, then it’s swept away as his gaze lowers, eyeing my briefcase. “But that won’t fit.”
I let the briefcase slip from my hand, dropping unceremoniously to the stone with a thump that barely registers over the crashing pulse in my ears.
With a sure touch, Orion smooths my hair back, and I don’t recoil at the cool feel of his gloves before he carefully slips the helmet over my head. “Fuck, that’s sexy.”
The helmet sits heavy. I’m hit with his heady scent of ocean and man. “What about you?”
“I don’t need one.”
“Right. Statistics,” I say, situating the helmet for comfort.
“No, you change that,” he says, something hesitant buried in his eyes. “My dark little anomaly, altering too many variables to know the precise outcome.”
Brows knit, I study his guarded expression. “You’re doing a terrible job of making me feel safe.”
His deep chuckle hits my stomach with a flutter. “I promise, nothing bad will happen to you on my bike.” He expertly fastens the strap under my chin, securing the helmet. “Still, I won’t take any chances with you.”
A soft murmur vibrates through my chest.
I believe him.
He glances at my discarded briefcase, brows hiked, and I shrug. “There’s nothing important in there,” I say, earning another heart-stopping grin.
