When we reach the front door, he stops at a closet and pulls out a worn leather jacket and a glossy black helmet.
“You'll need these,” he says, holding out the jacket.
My stomach drops. "We're taking your motorcycle?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"
I've avoided motorcycles since arriving. Carol always drives me in her SUV when I need to go somewhere, and I've never had to face this particular fear. Not the motorcycle itself—but what it means to ride with Havoc. Being pressed against his back, my arms around his waist, my thighs hugging his...
I clench my thighs together reflexively, feeling a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the clubhouse heating.
"N-no," I stammer. "Not a problem."
His eyes narrow slightly, like he knows I'm lying. "I can call Carol if you're not comfortable."
"It's fine," I say, taking the jacket from his hands. "I want to meet Bluebell." I slip my arms into it, immediately engulfed by warmth.
Havoc slides the helmet over my head, reaching out to adjust the strap, his fingers brushing my chin. Even that small touch makes my entire body burn.
I follow Havoc into the parking lot, where his gleaming black Harley sits waiting. The motorcycle looks powerful and dangerous—just like its owner.
He swings his leg over the seat with ease and turns to me. "Hop on and hold tight."
I hesitate for just a moment before climbing onto the bike behind him. The seat is smaller than I expected, forcing me to sit tightly pressed against him. There's nowhere else to put my hands but around his waist.
"Hold on," Havoc instructs. "Don't let go, no matter what."
I slide my arms around his middle, linking my fingers over his stomach. The moment I touch him, I realize this is a mistake. His body is rock solid beneath my hands, hard planes of muscle tensing under my fingertips. Through his thin T-shirt, I can feel the definition of his abs, the evidence of years of physical power.
My heart thunders against my ribs as I press closer. He smells incredible—whiskey and pine mixing with leather and something distinctly male. Each breath I take fills my lungs with his scent, making me lightheaded.
The engine roars to life between my thighs, the vibration sending shivers up my spine. I gasp and instinctively tighten my grip, my hands splaying across his stomach.
"You good?" Havoc calls over his shoulder, and I can only nod, not trusting my voice.
We pull out of the clubhouse lot, and the bike accelerates, forcing me to hold tighter. The engine growls beneath us. My thighs clench involuntarily around Havoc's hips as we take a corner, and a strange heat floods through me.
Oh god.
I've never felt anything like this before. The rumble of the motorcycle between my legs, the solid warmth of Havoc's back against my chest, the way my hands rest against the ridges of his abs—it's overwhelming. Each bump in the road pushes me harder against him, and I'm suddenly aware of an ache building low in my belly, a pulsing need I can’t satisfy.
I squeeze my thighs tighter, trying to relieve the pressure, but it only makes things worse. Better? I don't even know. My breath comes faster inside the helmet, fogging the visor slightly as we speed down the highway.
This is wrong. This is my dad's best friend. My protector. And he's so much older than me.
But my body doesn't seem to care about any of that. It responds to him on a primal level that bypasses all rationalthought. I've kissed boys before—fumbling, awkward encounters in the back of movie theaters or after school dances. Nothing serious. Nothing that made me feel like this.
Nothing that made me want to press closer, to feel more, to discover what would happen if I let this heat consume me.
The vibrations intensify as we hit a stretch of rougher road, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. My fingers clench against his stomach, and I feel his muscles tighten in response. Does he know? Can he feel how I'm reacting to him and the vibrations?
The thought should embarrass me, but instead, it sends another wave of heat through my body. I'm dizzy with it, lightheaded.
I rest my helmeted head against his back, closing my eyes and trying to breathe through the intensity. But that's a mistake—without sight, my other senses heighten. The rumble of the engine, the heat of his body, the way we move together on the bike—it's all I can feel, all I can think about.
The bike slows as we turn onto a gravel drive, the engine's roar dropping to a rumble. We pass through an open gate and approach a large barn with fenced paddocks stretching out behind it.
Havoc cuts the engine, and the sudden silence rings in my ears. He shifts, waiting for me to dismount first, but I can't move. My body is on fire, my legs trembling, my center throbbing. How can I face him like this?
