She just shakes her head, that grin still sitting on her mouth like she’s got nowhere better to put it.
My hand comes up before I think about it, settling at the front of her throat, fingers curling lightly along the side of herneck as I pull her in. Her breath catches just slightly before my mouth finds hers.
She leans into it. Her hand comes up and finds my chest.
I take my time with it.
When I pull back, it’s slow. She follows for half a second before stopping herself, lips parting slightly, eyes opening a beat later than they should.
Her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. And I memorize the movement.
“You ever been on the back of someone’s bike?”
She exhales softly, the corner of her mouth lifting. “A couple times. but it’s been a while.”
My jaw tightens as jealousy gurgles inside my gut like acid. But I file that away for later.
“Tap my leg if you need me to stop for anything. And hold on tighter than you think. Move with me.”
“Got it.” She rocks onto her toes when she says it.
I swing on first, settle my weight, then reach back for her. She takes my hand without hesitation and climbs on behind me. I guide her arms forward until her hands find each other at my stomach.
The heat of her lands against my spine.
“Don’t let go.”
Her arms cinch around my torso. I pull one wrist over the other and hold it there for a second before releasing.
I wait until she’s settled before I start the engine. It shudders up through the frame, through the seat, through both of us.
I ease us out into the street. She tightens her grip at the first acceleration, her fingers spreading flat against my stomach before they curl in.
If we were on the highway—and she had a helmet—I’d open it up. But the beaches are close.
The buildings thin. Then it’s just road and coastline, the ocean cutting a long blue line beside us. The air shifts out here, salt and weight, and the wind comes harder the faster I go.
I go faster.
Her hands climb without her seeming to notice. I take the next curve with a little more lean than I need to, and her chest drops against my back, arms locking in, her whole body making a decision her mouth didn’t.
I hold the speed there. Don’t give it back.
Good.
I keep the speed just under the edge after that, letting the ride stretch out long enough to feel it settle between us.
By the time we reach the beach, the lot is half full. Cars lined up in neat rows, most with board racks strapped to roofs like accessories instead of tools.
I slow the bike and cut the engine, the sudden quiet replaced almost immediately by the steady crash of waves.
“How do we know which cars belong to kooks?” she asks as she slides off behind me. Her hands drag across my stomach before she lets go.
“It’s noon.”
I look in the water, spotting at least a dozen people surfing. We’re too far away to tell if they’re kook assholes, but their cars never lie.
“That’s not enough,” she murmurs, her brows digging toward one another.
