She rolls her eyes but complies, sliding her arms into the sleeves. The jacket swallows her whole; the bottom hitting mid-thigh and the sleeves hanging well past her fingertips. She looks fucking ridiculous and so goddamn perfect I can barely breathe.
"It's like wearing a tent," she complains, trying to push up the sleeves.
I ignore her, turning back to the bike. I pull off the back seat cushion so I can unlatch her helmet. I always keep it on the bike because I never know when shit like this might happen and I’ll be damned if I can’t have her on the back.
The helmet's custom, dark blue with stars, constellations, and a galaxy spray painted across it. Had it custom made for her years ago.
I hold it out to her, and she takes it, still huffing about the jacket as she tries to zip it up.
"This thing is ridiculous," she mutters, struggling with the zipper. "I'm drowning in it."
I step closer, batting her hands away to zip it up myself. "You dress for the slide, not the ride, baby girl."
Her eyes soften at that, the annoyance melting away. She knows I'm right—that I'm just trying to keep her safe. She pulls the helmet over her head, and I reach out to secure the strap under her chin, my fingers lingering on the soft skin of her throat.
Brett clears his throat, reminding me of his unwelcome presence. "Text me later?" He says to Reese.
I turn my head slowly, fixing him with a look that makes him take a step back. "She won't be texting anyone tonight."
"Rams," Reese warns from inside the helmet, her voice muffled.
I ignore her, keeping my eyes locked on Brett until he drops his gaze. Only then do I turn back to the bike, swinging my leg over and settling into the seat.
"Get on," I tell her, flipping my visordown.
Reese huffs, but I can see the smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She steps up to the bike, placing one hand on my shoulder for balance. The weight of her palm burns through my tank top, searing into my skin like a brand. If I didn’t think she’d freak out I’d permanently ink her handprint right there. She hoists herself up behind me, her body pressing flush against my back.
"Happy now, you caveman?" she mutters, but there's no real heat in her words.
Her arms snake around my waist, fingers interlocking across my abs. She squeezes tight, molding herself to me like she was fucking made to fit there. My blood pressure instantly drops ten points. The rage that's been pounding behind my eyes all day starts to recede, replaced by something else—something equally dangerous but infinitely more addictive.
"Always am when you're where you belong," I reply, kicking the stand up and pulling away from the curb, leaving boy wonder with the bun to choke on my exhaust.
Chapter 2
Reese
There's a freedom on the back of Ramsey's motorcycle that I can't get anywhere else. Wind tears at my clothes, even through the leather jacket he makes me wear, and my whole body vibrates with the power of the engine between our legs. It's fucking intoxicating.
It makes me forget about the grueling practice I just had and the snide comments Oli made about me. She’s always saying I could never be a ballerina; I am too undisciplined, too heavy. That I care too much about boys. I don’t want to be a ballerina, so she can take her pointe shoes and shove them right down her throat.
I tighten my grip around his hard stomach, feeling the ridges of his abs under my fingertips. Three quick taps against his side is our signal I want to go faster.
Without hesitation, he cranks the throttle. Thebike surges forward, and my body presses harder against his back. The rush hits me like a drug, sending adrenaline racing through my veins. I can't help the squeal that escapes my lips, lost immediately to the wind.
Ramsey's back is a solid wall of muscle against my chest. I press my helmet between his shoulder blades, closing my eyes for a moment to just feel everything—the rumble of the engine, the curves of the road, the heat of his body against mine.
Being here reminds me of the first time I decided to get on the back of a motorcycle. My sister Reagan's husband-by-force-while-drugged-but-semantics, Penn, had offered me a ride one night after we had dinner together. I was standing in their driveway, Reagan's old helmet in my hands, trying to figure out how the strap worked.
Penn was leaning against his bike, typing on his phone with that shit-eating grin he always gets when he's stirring the pot.
"What's so funny?" I asked, finally clicking the strap into place.
"Nothing, little hellion," Penn said, his grin widening as he looked up from his phone. "Just sent your picture to mini-me. He's not amused."
Before I could ask what the hell that meant, the roar of another motorcycle cut through the quiet suburban street. Ramsey came tearing around the corner, pulling up hard beside Penn's bike.
The look on his face when he yanked off his helmet—I'd never seen him that pissed before. His blue eyes were practically on fire ashe glared at Penn.
