“Let’s go, hop on,” he says.
I stop a few feet away, cross my arms. “I can just drive myself. Tell me where we’re going, and I’ll follow you.”
His eyebrow lifts. “No.”
“My car—”
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
My jaw clenches. “You didn’t ask the first time.”
Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or irritation. Hard to tell with him.
He shakes the helmet.
I don’t take it.
“Put it on,Ayla.”
The way he says my name makes something twist low in my stomach. I snatch the helmet from his hands, shove it over my head. It smells like him, his cologne.
He swings onto the bike, and it rumbles to life beneath him.
I stand there like an idiot.
“Get on,” he says over the engine.
I hesitate. Every instinct I have screams that getting on this bike, with this man, is stupid dangerous.
But Gabriel’s threat flashes.
I swing my leg over and settle behind him. The seat forces me close—too close.My thighs press against his, and there’s nowhere to put my hands except—
He reaches back, grabs my wrists, and pulls my arms around his waist.
“Hold on,” he says.
Then he twists the throttle, and the world disappears.
The bike surges forward, and I grip him tighter without thinking. The city blurs past—lights, streets, people. Everything moving too fast to process.
His body is solid under my hands. Warm. I can feel the muscles in his abdomen shift as he leans into turns, feel the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The scent from the helmet surrounds me now. Leather. Smoke. Him.
It’s nauseating.
We weave through traffic, cut down side streets I don’t recognize. He drives like he owns the road—aggressive,precise, like he’s daring anyone to get in his way.
Finally, he slows.
We pull into an underground parking garage. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow.
He kills the engine.
The silence is deafening.
I let go of him, climb off the bike on shaky legs. Pull off the helmet and hand it back.
