We shoot past rolling hills covered in lush green trees in full summer splendor, fields of vibrant corn and sorghum stretching to the horizon, their leaves dancing in the warm breeze. Wildflowers dot the roadside in bursts of purple and yellow, while distilleries with their distinctive black buildings and copper stills shimmer in the intense summer heat. Several well-known distilleries are scattered along our route, though none are as large or regal as the Blackstone’s. The occasional creek sparkles in the sunlight, a welcome sight in the summer warmth as we venture deeper into Kentucky’s famous bourbon region.
The powerful engine beneath us hums, creating a constant vibration that travels up my inner thighs. When we roll to a stop at a red light, Thorne pats my hand where it rests against his abdomen.
“You good back there?” he asks over the wind and engine.
His touch sends a different kind of vibration through me. One that has nothing to do with the motorcycle and everything to do with the heat of his palm against my skin. I nod, knowing he can feel the movement. Which is good, because I don’t trust my voice.
The light changes, and Thorne twists the throttle. The bike surges forward, and a whoop of pure joy escapes my lips as I press tighter against his back. I tighten my grip around his waist, molding myself to him, my thighs squeezing his hips as we rocket forward. His chuckle rumbles through his back and into my chest, and I wonder if he can feel my heart racing against him.
About an hour into our ride, he pulls into a gravel lot beside a weathered roadside establishment with a faded burger sign.
“Best burgers in three counties. Family owned since 1962.” Thorne says, killing the engine and pulling off his helmet. I do the same.
I’m too short to reach the ground, so I stand on the pegs and swing a leg over. Before I can hop down, he grips my waist and sets me gently to the ground. His hands linger at my waist until I twist around to face him. Then he steps back, heading for the diner.
And wow, it looks like something from Pinterest or like I’ve stepped back into a time machine to the 50s. The outside is all metal, with a red-and-silver awning and stickers plastered everywhere—the siding, windows, and the glass door. There’s even a flickering red neon sign on the roof with a curving blue neon arrow pointing down.
Inside is just as cute, with charming red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, and walls covered in local memorabilia and even more stickers. A stunning blonde waitress calls Thorne by name, surprising me. Her gaze lingers like she wants him on the menu.
We slide into a corner booth. “You come here often?” I ask.
“Whenever I need to escape and a good burger,” he replies, removing his sunglasses.
We order classic cheeseburgers, onion rings, and milkshakes. They arrive in record time, and I’m smitten that our drinks are delivered in frosted metal mixing cups. I take a small sip and moan.
The sound is indecent, and Thorne quirks a brow, “Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes.” I take another sip and roll my eyes back. “This is better than most of my sexual encounters.”
He leans forward. “Better than ours?”
No. But teasing him is fun, so I say, “Maybe.”
His lip twitches, like he knows I’m full of shit. “Hmm. How about after this, we visit this deserted park I know? We can go for a different kind of ride on my motorcycle. I’m certain I can change your mind.”
I press my lips together like I’m holding in a laugh, but in reality, it’s so I don’t blurt, “yes.”
His lips curve into that rare, genuine smile that transforms his face, softening the hard angles and making him even more handsome.
The pretty server sets our plates down with a flourish, leaning closer to Thorne than necessary.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks, her voice dropping to a honeyed drawl as she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Absolutely anything at all?”
Thorne glances up with a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’re all set for now, thanks.”
She lingers, her hip almost brushing his shoulder. “Holler if you change your mind.” She walks away with an exaggerated sway to her hips.
An unexpected hot, tight sensation spreads through my chest. I stab an onion ring with unnecessary force. “I never pictured Thorne Blackstone in a place like this.”
“No?” He picks up his burger. “Let me guess, you thought I only ate at places with white tablecloths and bourbon lists longer than novels.”
“Something like that.”
“Disappointing you already?” His tone is light, but the way he’s watching me suggests my answer matters.
And his look makes me honest. “Actually, it’s the opposite. It’s nice to see there’s more to you than power and persuasion.”
“You think I’m persuasive?” He grins.
