“I’m something.”
“I bet you are.” There’s no warmth in her tone, like she disapproves of who and what I am.
Bet she has a story to tell—deep secrets she’d never share. Someone hurt her in the past, I can tell by the way she carries herself, opens up for a split second, then withdraws behind whatever imaginary, defensive walls she’s constructed around herself. The more beautiful a woman is, the more pain she totes around. That’s something I’ve learned after being on the road, meeting the kind of people I have.
Ignoring her icy demeanor, I stare out at the pounding rain. “This isn’t going to let up any time soon. Do you have family nearby? Somewhere I can take you?”
She wraps her arms around her middle, hugging herself. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
Rough around the edges, scared even. “Only when I need to.”
“And what about that choking shit?” she asks.
“Don’t sneak up on a brother next time.” She’s obviously spent some time around an MC. Maybe an old lady or passaround, or maybe she just doesn’t like what we represent. I shrug, losing interest. “No loss to me, girl,” I say. “You can stay here all night or accept a ride to whatever bayou-side shack you want. Your choice.”
She chuckles then. “Bayou-side shack? Let me guess, you’re not from around here. Are you here for pleasure or business?”
“Does it matter?”
“Nope.”
An awkward moment of silence follows, then she speaks up again. “Thanks for checking on me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m Starlet.” She extends her hand and I notice she’s wearing thin, gold bands on each finger and her thumb.
“Brick,” I say, shaking her tiny hand, feeling her warmth and liking it.
“Brick? What kind of name is that?”
I don’t miss the quick glance between my legs. I smirk, used to that reaction whenever a woman hears my name. “Want to find out?” I ask.
The blanket slips off her shoulders as she hooks her fingers on her belt loops and looks me up and down. I can’t deny my attraction to her. And if I know anything about women, she feels the same. “You are a sonofabitch, aren’t you?”
I laugh. “Sometimes. Something tells me I’m the kind of dude you like, though. A lot.”
She rolls those startling eyes at me and smiles, revealing a dimple in her right cheek. “Maybe. If you give me a ride on that bad ass machine of yours.”
I turn to my bike. “You like Harleys?”
“I like Fat Boys and Nightriders.” She leans over my bike, running her fingers over the tank, following the line of the pinstripes like she’s tracing the shape of my body. I’m instantly hard thinking about her hands on me.
And she knows it, because that sexy smirk on her face tells me everything I need to know. She doesn’t just like my Harley, she wants the man in leather who rides it.
Aphrodisiacs don’t exist, but a hot woman talking bikes might just be it for me. I look at her again, admiring her thin legs and smooth, white skin—determined to fuck her before we part ways tonight. “Get on, Starlet, we’ll find a place to have a drink before I take you home.” If she missed the emphasis onthe before I take you homepart, then I’m losing my touch. Either way, she’ll find out soon enough.
She steps back as I repack the saddle bags and then hand her the half helmet I keep for passengers. Without complaining, she straps it on her head, once again demonstrating her comfort around bikes and a man like me. I climb on first and watch as she straddles the seat behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, pressing her tits into my back, lighting me up inside like Fourth-of-July fireworks.
Within seconds, we’re racing down the highway, hoping to find a bar first, then a motel.
