I lean forward and place my chin on her shoulder. Adaline instantly stiffens and nudges me off, I fight the urge to bend her over this bike and spank the shit out of her for—wait, no. Not spank. I mean punch, kick, or anything else, but definitely not spank.
Damn these intrusive thoughts.
“How many people have been on this bike?” I whisper teasingly in her ear, pretending like I'm not yearning for the answer.
“Fuck off!” she responds. It's muffled because her helmet is still on and it frustrates me.
Shefrustrates me.
I wish I could see her face; how bothersome her features must look right now. I love bothering her, I love it so much that sometimes I forget why I'm doing it.
“Did they touch you?” I purr the words out.
I often did this with her; berated her for being attracted to women, but then I contradicted myself and teased her. But only because it felt so good to tease her, to revel in the fact that I bother her and she's affected by me.
“Yes. Many people have fucked me on this bike too.”
One. Two. Three. I give her three whole seconds to change her statement or laugh it off, but she doesn't.
Does she have a death wish? Or do I just want to kill someone?
My hands are tightening and I don't know why; my body is stiff and I can't explain it. All that I know is that images of the people Adaline has possibly had sex with on this bike are invading my mind.
Oh God. A woman bending her over this bike while having sex with her? Or did she ride a burly man on here? How many times—
This annoyance that's coursing through my veins right now is purely because I'm straight and thinking about her having sex with women on this bike is bothering me because it's unnatural. That has to be it.
I'm not sure when we reached my house, but I feel myself being snapped back to reality when I feel the bike become stationary.
“Get off my bike, blondie,” she demands, taking her helmet off, I momentarily lose my senses when I see her unforgivably gorgeous black hair spill from the helmet.
She shakes her head like we're in some movie and everything is in slow motion. I hate that she looks so good even after a helmet has been sitting on her head.
I clear my throat and shake my head, getting off the bike quickly. “Gladly.”
I take slow steps up towards my house and enter the key code for the black gate to open: 2305.
My home is like something out of the movies. You know where kids have a whole platter of breakfast but eat one strawberry and run out of the house? It’s that type of house.
My mother always complains about how it’s one of our smallest houses. Her exact words are always, “This house is only 9000 square feet, what would most people think?”
She thinks our circular fountain is too tacky and that the high bushes are never perfectly trimmed.
She prefers our houses in the sunnier parts of the world, such as Australia and California. Not me, I love London; this is where I was born and raised.
Staring up at this mansion in front of me, I feel grateful for the house, but I feel dread every time I walk through those doors.
It seems like Adaline isn't too fond of my house either. I don't miss the faint smirk on her lips. She's probably reminiscing on the time that she vandalized my house three years ago with her friends. It was impressive actually.
She spray-painted my home, threw eggs, and littered everywhere. My house was in chaos for a good few weeks. I still don’t know how she managed to cover so much area, but then, maybe it’s our fault for giving security the night off that day. And by our fault, I mean mine.
Of course, I witnessed the security tapes and saw everything. I quickly deleted every shred of evidence because I knew very well that if my mother had found the tapes, Adaline would be in prison. There was no way I could let that happen.
“Come on,” I say to her, as I yank my keys out and make my way inside the house while she follows. Immediately we enter the house, maids come running towards me, asking how best they can serve me.
I offer a gentle smile. “I won't be needing any assistance, please do not disturb me.”
I make my way up the stairs, my body and mind aware that Adaline is behind me. I wonder if the smell of my house is refreshing for her or it's bothering her like it bothers me. My house always smelled like bleach; always clean and perfect with not an ounce of dirt. My mother was very anal about cleanliness, which didn't really pass down to me.
