Her hand drops from the tank. She turns, and for a heartbeat, we look at each other, our motorcycles between us. “But what about today?”
“You can ride with me.” I hold my breath, hoping my face doesn’t give away how much I want her to say yes.
I want this. Badly. But I won’t pressure her. So, I wait, sliding my poker face into play.
Ivy smiles, and this one is small and careful. “Guess you’re stuck with me,” she finally says.
"Yeah." I grin. It stretches all the way to my heart. “I’m a lucky man.”
My pulse goes all in, every tell I've ever suppressed showing in that skipped beat. I grab our helmets to give my hands something to do that isn't pulling her closer. I retrieve her jacket hanging from a hook.
Handing over her gear, my thumb brushes over her initials embossed in gold on the back. She takes it and runs her fingers over the same spot. "You kept them.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’d thrown them in the trash.” She traces the initials on her helmet again. “Sorry. I was being a little dramatic the night of our fight. When we were supposed to go out riding.”
I take a chance and run my thumb over her cheek. She leans into my touch. My chest tightens at her trust. “I took them out, hoping you would change your mind. Even if you never wanted to ride with me again. I didn’t want you to give up something you love.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
She pulls the helmet on without a word. I do the same, grateful for the excuse to look away, to get my face under control.
I swing my leg over the Ducati. Pulling in the clutch, I hit the button and the engine roars to life beneath me, all power thrumming through the frame, through my bones. I look at Ivy.She's standing behind me, helmet on, hands loose at her sides. Hesitating.
“Ready?” I force my shoulders to remain loose, but under my riding gloves, my knuckles are white.
She moves. One leg over, settling against my back. Every point of contact burns through my leather jacket. Her weight. Her warmth. The way she fits against me, like the bike was built for us. Like she was made for me.
I need her closer, need to feel her against me, but the words stick. Finally, I manage, "Hands on me,” and it comes out low, almost a command.
Her arms come around my waist. Tentative. Barely touching. Like she's not sure she's allowed to anymore, like all these weeks of careful distance means she needs permission for this.
I pull her arms tighter, her hands flatten against my stomach. Press back into her slightly so she knows that this is exactly what I want.
Her breath ghosts across the back of my neck. Every muscle in my back responds to that small intimacy. She flexes her grip. Fingers spread wide across my ribs. Thighs press against my hips. She's holding on now, really holding on, my lungs forget their job. Fuck, I’ve missed this.
I thumb the garage door opener. Sunlight floods in, and I ease us forward, taking it slow to savor her scent and the warmth is lost to the wind and winding roads.
The engine settles into its purr as we roll down the driveway. She rests her chin on my shoulder. Her body moves with mine as I shift through the turn onto the road.
We head east, away from Louisville, into the rolling hills that I missed while living in Quebec. The sun is warm, the wind is clean, and Ivy pressed against every inch of my back is all I need.
We pass through a nowhere place—one stoplight, a gas station, a diner that's probably been there since the fifties. Her handshifts a little lower on my stomach, not a lot, but it's enough to send heat pooling low in my gut.
Focus. Road. Not the woman wrapped around you.
But hell, it's impossible. The vibration of the bike between us. The way her thighs grip tighter when I downshift. How she tilts her head against my shoulder on the straightaways like she's content to be here, moving, together.
Forty-five minutes disappear and an overlook comes into view. It’s barely a park, more a scenic pullout with weathered benches and a view of the river valley below. I used to come here as an asshole teenager, when Kentucky felt like a cage and I needed to remember why I'd ever loved it.
I slow, pull into the gravel lot, and kill the engine.
The sudden silence is loud. There’s only the ticking of the cooling bike and the distant rush of the river.
Ivy doesn't move. Her arms stay around my waist, her body still pressed against mine, like she's not ready to let go.
Neither am I.
