The thing looked like it ate smaller motorcycles for breakfast. Matte-black, chrome flashing along the pipes, leather seat hugging the frame like it had been designed specifically for bad decisions.
Even parked, the machine practically purred danger.
Colton stood next to it, arms folded across his ridiculous biceps. He watched Zack with the sort of soft patience that could’ve been comforting if not for the size difference and the way Zack’s heartbeat did embarrassing things when he looked at the guy.
He’d agreed to this. Voluntarily. Like a man possessed by someone with a death wish. Zack had always been a risk-avoidant sort of guy. Don’t run with scissors. Don’t twist your ankle jumping curbs. Don’t get on motorcycles with men who could probably bench-press a washing machine.
Yet here he was, outside Cyril’s Café, sweating through a pale blue T-shirt and skinny jeans that honestly did no favors for his self-preservation instincts.
Colton beckoned him closer with one finger. “It won’t bite. That’s my job.”
Zack nearly choked on a laugh, nerves and excitement tangling together. “I don’t know, man. It looks like the kind of bike that eats people for breakfast.”
“It prefers assholes,” Colton said. “You’re safe.”
Right. Because Colton, built like a linebacker and packed into a gray T-shirt and jeans, was safety incarnate.
He scanned the street, but nobody was paying them any attention. Just heat radiating off the concrete and the faint rumble of traffic somewhere down Main. Zack found himself hyper-aware of every sound, every shift in the air around them. Colton’s presence muted the world until it was just the two of them next to the bike that probably had more personality than either of them.
Zack’s legs tried to lock up on him. “So, uh. This is… intimidating.”
Colton moved closer, crowding Zack gently against the curb, careful not to startle. His voice dropped. “You want to back out?”
“Not even a little bit.” Huge lie. He wanted to run, but wanted to impress Colton more. Besides, Zack had never been this close to a man who made him feel like anything was possible. If trust had a smell, it would’ve been the cedar-tinged heat rolling off Colton’s T-shirt.
“Good,” Colton said, “because I was looking forward to your arms around me.”
Zack snorted. “I bet you say that to all the waiters you kidnap.”
Colton’s eyes crinkled with his smile. He rolled the Harley out into the sun before swinging one long leg over and settling on the seat. “Come here, kitten.”
Zack hesitated. He’d seen people ride before, but all that know-how fled his head as soon as he stepped up next to the bike. How did people get on without tripping over their own feet? Was he supposed to climb, vault, or just throw himself at it and hope for the best?
Colton’s hand found his hip. The grip was gentle, guiding, and Zack’s skin burned hot under the palm even through the denim.
“Never mind,” Zack said. “If I fall on my face, promise to take a picture for my obituary. I want to be remembered for the right reasons.”
Colton squeezed his hip, steadying him. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart. Put your left foot here.” He pointed at the peg. Zack planted a sneaker on it, praying his foot didn’t slip. “Now swing your other leg over.”
It was harder than expected. His jeans clung to his knees, making him wobble, but Colton guided him with an easy hand. For a second, Zack’s face was close to Colton’s. Their breath mingled in the summer-thick air, and all Zack could think about was how easy it would be to lean in, press his mouth to Colton’s, and let the rest of the world vanish.
“Perfect,” Colton said, voice warm as honey. “Arms go around me. Hold on as tight as you want.”
Oh Zack planned on it. His palms landed on Colton’s ribs, finding heat and muscle there. The sensation was electric, almost vibrating under his grip. He tightened his arms, clutching for dear life.
The motor ignited with a snarl that vibrated through the whole frame. Zack expected the world to lurch, or for the bike to do something wild and unpredictable, but Colton held them steady, barely a whisper of movement as he eased them off the kickstand.
“You good?” Colton called over his shoulder.
“Define good!” Zack’s face was pressed between Colton’s shoulder blades, his words muffled.
Colton laughed, deep and real. “You’re fucking adorable. If you want me to slow down, tap my leg.”
“Don’t plan on letting go,” Zack squealed.
With his arms clamped tight, Colton rolled away from the curb and into Main Street.
The first block went slower than Zack expected. Colton kept the speed safe, never even jerking the throttle. The ride was smooth, almost lazy, weaving between older cars and the occasional pedestrian. Instead of wild danger, the dominant sense was… comfort? Or at least, control.
