I grin, a feral, satisfied thing. I grab her hand, pulling her back toward the bike.
"There's my little shark," I murmur. "Now let's go give the town something to really talk about."
3
CASSANDRA
I pace the length of my suite at the Grand Pine Lodge, the plush carpet muffling the sharp click of my heels. My phone sits on the mahogany desk like a live grenade, threatening to detonate the shaky truce I’ve just negotiated with my sanity.
Fake dating.
Bile rises in my throat at the thought. I am a senior associate at a top-tier environmental law firm. I don't engage in charades with criminal motorcycle club members who look at me like I’m a meal they’ve already paid for. I litigate. I negotiate. I win. But when Chase Gunnar looked at me on that cliffside yesterday, with the wind tearing through his dark hair and that predatory smirk carved into his jaw, winning felt secondary to surrendering.
The vibration of my phone stops my pacing dead. The screen lights up with a single, demanding word.
Outside.
No punctuation. No greeting. Just a command.
A sharp, liquid throb pulses through my pussy, my thong already dampening—a primal reaction that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the heavy, predatory thud of his boots against the gravel yesterday. My body is preparing for him before my mind even consents. I smooth the front of my charcoal pencil skirt, checking my reflection one last time. The silk of my cream blouse is pristine. My lipstick is a severe, professional berry shade. I look like a woman in control.
I am a liar.
I grab my coat and head downstairs.
The air outside bites, carrying the sharp scent of pine needles and snow. The lodge’s exterior lights cast long, golden shadows across the driveway, illuminating the beast of a machine idling at the curb. And the beast leaning against it.
Chase.
He abandoned his cut tonight. He wears a dark grey thermal shirt that clings to the thick slabs of muscle across his chest, tucked into black jeans worn in all the places my eyes shouldn't linger. He crosses his arms as I approach, his biceps straining the fabric.
"You're late," he rumbles, a low vibration I feel in the soles of my feet.
"I didn't agree to a time," I counter, stopping three feet away to maintain a defensive perimeter. "And I certainly didn't agree to be summoned like a subordinate."
He pushes off the bike, closing the distance between us in two long strides. The air around him radiates a furnace heat that cuts through the mountain chill. He smells of sandalwood, gasoline,and heavy musk—a scent that bypasses my logic center and hits the primal part of my brain that wants to curl up and purr.
"We have a schedule to keep, Counselor," he says, looking down at me with eyes that are green, intelligent, and entirely too amused. "If we're going to sell this narrative, we need witnesses. Friday night at the Timber Trail Tavern. Peak viewing hours."
"I have a car," I say, glancing at the black motorcycle. "We can take mine. It has seatbelts and a heater."
Chase laughs, a rough, scraping sound. "Not a chance. My girl rides with me. Besides..." He steps closer, invading my personal space until I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. His hand comes up, scarred knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of my jaw. "I like the way your pussy feels pressed against my spine when I take a corner, and I like knowing you’re holding onto me for dear life while I own the road. Get on, Counselor."
My breath hits a snag. His fingers possess a roughness that contrasts violently with the gentle way he tilts my chin up.
"It's a prop," I whisper, my voice thinner than I intend. "The bike. The touching. Props for the narrative."
"Keep telling yourself that," he murmurs, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Now, put the helmet on, Cassandra. Obey me."
The order strikes a nerve, sending a flush of heat shooting straight to my pussy. He knows. He has to know. He saw the way my pupils dilated yesterday when he controls me, and now he weaponizes it.
I snatch the helmet from his hand, my fingers trembling. "Don't patronize me."
"I'm not patronizing you," he says, swinging a leg over the bike and firing the engine. The roar deafens me, vibrating through my chest. "I'm training you."
I should walk away. I should call a cab, call the Mayor, call my firm and demand a reassignment. I don't. I pull the helmet on, hike my charcoal pencil skirt high up my thighs, the silk of my thong exposed to the mountain air for a split second before I straddle the seat. I ignore the heavy, leaden throb in my core as his eyes track the movement, devouring the sight of my bare skin. I climb on, my body pressing flush against the vibrating heat of the machine and the man.
I press my chest against his back. My thighs bracket his hips, flattening against the hard wall of his spine, and as he revs the engine, I wrap my arms around his waist. He feels solid, immovable, like the mountain itself. As we tear out of the lot, I tell myself I’m doing this for the case. I’m doing this to save the permit hearing.
