“Why the hell are you listening to that?”
His grin widens. “They’re my favorite.” Then, without missing a beat, he yells dramatically along with the music, “Tell me why-y!”
I can’t help it, I laugh. The reality of this hot, tattooed, and pierced bad boy jamming to Backstreet Boys is ridiculous.
Hottie helps me onto the bike behind him, and it’s easy. I slip onto the seat just like last time, my hands naturally finding their way to his waist. For some reason, being on the back of his bike feels safer, more comfortable than driving in a car.
Probably because there are no memories attached to it.
I press myself closer to him, my arms wrapped around his solid torso as the engine roars to life, and then we’re off. The wind whips through the small gap in the helmet, and the city blurs around us, but all I can hear is him singing along to the music at the top of his lungs. It’s absurd. And yet, it makes something heavy inside me lift a little.
“Why Backstreet Boys?” I ask over the hum of the engine and the blaring music.
He chuckles, his voice crackling through the helmet. “Started it to annoy my brother. Backfired. Now I’m into it.”
“Your brother… Ez?” I press, holding on tighter as we speed through the city.
“Yep. I’ve got four brothers.” Then, after a moment, he asks, “What about you? Got any siblings?”
The question hits harder than I expect, and I freeze, the memory of Rosalee flashing through my mind. The smile, the laughter, the glitter gone like a snapped string in the dark.
“No,” I answer softly, the weight of the word sinking into me as I hold on tighter. “I don’t.”
Not anymore.
FIFTEEN
We pull up to my building, and as I slide off the bike, my body immediately feels lighter, like I’ve shed a layer of heaviness. Hottie is quick to follow, looking at me as he helps pull off my helmet, something unspoken passing between us.
I lead him up the stairs, and we finally enter my apartment. The familiar scent of candy-scented candles and my mess of glitter-covered-everything greeting us instead of the desolation I was anticipating.
I shrug out of my hoodie, tossing it onto the pink couch as Hottie surveys the room with that curious smile of his. “Want anything?”
Instead of replying, he steps closer, his hands landing on my thighs with a firm but gentle grip. Before I know it, he’s hoisting me up, and my breath catches as I wrap my legs around his waist while my hands grip the back of his neck.
His eyes lock onto mine, intense yet not as if he’s holding back just enough to keep me from bolting. “I don’t want anything except to go back to where we left off,” he murmurs, sending a shiver down my spine.
My throat tightens as I swallow hard, and the warmth of his body seeps into mine as he walks us toward my bedroom. I don’tknow what’s scarier—the way he looks at me like I’m something more or how much I want to let him. “And this time…” he continues. “You tell me your triggers.”
“I don’t have any triggers,” I lie, the words feeling flimsy even as they leave my lips.
“Sure.” He chuckles again, his eyes skeptical as he nudges the door open with his foot. “Could’ve fooled me.” The door clicks shut behind us, and the tension in the air thickens as he carries me to the bed and lays me down. Hovering over me, his breath warm against my skin, he asks, “So, just no weed?” His lips brush against my ear as his thumb strokes my cheek. “Nothing else I need to be careful about?”
I hesitate for a moment, and he leans back to watch me, the weight of his gaze making it harder to breathe. It probably would be better to open up the tiniest bit to make sure I’m not setting us both up for a disaster again. “Maybe stay clear of the tattoo,” I whisper back.
His eyes widen the slightest bit, like he’s piecing together something important, though I’m sure he knows shit. Still, there’s a flicker of understanding in his gaze. He leans down again, his lips ghosting over mine in a short peck. “No problem,” he murmurs. “Any other hands-off zones?”
“Nope.” I push him back a little to pull off my cami and toss it aside, realizing I’ve still got the pasties stuck to my nipples. “The rest are allhands-onzones.”
I rip off the pasties, wincing at the sting, but before I can even react, his hands are there, his thumbs stroking over my nipples, soothing the brief burn. “Shh,” he whispers, his tone laced with amusement as he leans down, his breath hot against my skin. “Why are you so brutal to your beautiful tits?”
A soft moan escapes me as his lips close around one nipple, and I lean back, my hands bracing against the bed for support, every nerve in my body lighting up under his touch.
My head tilts back, and a shiver runs down my spine as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, drawing gasps that I can’t hold back. The pull of his mouth and graze of his teeth are all-consuming, sending waves of heat coursing through me until my body arches into him, craving more.
His hands are everywhere, his thumbs stroking circles that leave a trail of fire in their wake. My breathing quickens, ragged and shallow, and when he switches to the other nipple, his lips brushing and teasing, my fingers curl into the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto.
I lose myself in the moment, in the heat of his touch, in the way he takes his time as if savoring every inch of me. His hands slide lower, tracing over my ribs and waist, making my head spin, and I’m drunk on the sensation. And when he finally pushes me down, hovering his weight over me, my heart stutters.
