“Just a coffee. Between friends.”
“Yeah. Friends.”
The music picks up speed, and the crowd begins to move toward the entrance of the ballroom.
Felix whips his head in the direction of the commotion. “I have to go genuflect before the king. I’ll find you after?”
I nod, and he leaves.
My eyes close in frustration. I shouldn’t be doing this; to him or to me, but especially not to him, but I can’t take it. I need to talk to him—keep tabs and make sure he’s alright.
Just friends.
Chapter 23
Felix
Motorcycles really are the sexiest thing on the planet. It’s basically a huge, noisy vibrator on wheels. The drivers wear leather, and the passenger has to grip onto that sexy motherfucker, or they’ll go careening off the back.
Whoever invented this thing wanted a vehicle that would turn people on, and that’s exactly what I am as Torren drives down Belmont’s affluent neighborhood to a nearby Italian cafe.
The roads are damp from a recent drizzle, and the street lamps cast a glow on the wet concrete. My body’s pressed against Torren’s muscular back with my hands clasped around his torso, and it’s hard not to swoon.
It’s also hard not to get hard.
Every time my dick swells, I clench my eyes shut and think about my father eating oysters.
A sight that would make anyone’s dick retract.
Torren is driving slowly, and he brought two helmets, which is a sure sign that this little outing was planned.
Or at least something he had in the back of his mind whenhe infiltrated my father’s fundraiser.
Part of me is still hurt by everything he said in his shop. The temptation to make him work a little harder for this semi-reconciliation is real, but defending me against one of my high school bullies is doing some mighty heavy lifting right now.
What’s a girl to do?
I squeeze Torren tighter with one arm and point to the cafe with the other.
He comes to a stop in front of it and whips off his helmet. “This is…nice.” He says it warily, like he’s waiting for the cafe to sprout claws and scratch him.
Once my helmet is off, I quickly futz with my hair and shrug. “It’s a dessert place. They serve espresso and Italian desserts. You like cannoli?”
“Never had it.”
My gasp is dramatic but justified. “Stop! My ears! Okay, you need cannoli as soon as possible. Let’s go.”
My feet land with a loud clacking noise because of the wooden soles, and it reminds me of my Mother’s heels. I make my way to the entrance and notice Torren is still sitting on his bike, eyeing the restaurant cautiously.
“What is it? You don’t like it?” I ask.
“They won’t let me in there. Look at me.”
I survey his attire. Beneath his leather coat, he wears black slacks, patent-leather shoes, and a black vest over a white button-down shirt.
“What do you mean? You look great!”
Torren rolls his eyes and adjusts his leather jacket. It’s a move I’ve seen before, and I’m starting to realize it happens when he’s in defense mode. “I don’t do fancy shit. You look amazing, and I’m—“ he pauses and looks down athis hands. “Come on. You don’t want to go in there with me.”
