I leaned slightly to the side and glared at her through the helmet. “I can still hear you.”
“I know,” she said cheerfully.
Mason started the engine.
The bike came alive beneath us with a deep, violent rumble that moved straight through my bones. I made a sound I would deny under oath.
Mason’s head tilted slightly.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Didn’t say anything.”
“You thought loudly.”
He revved the engine once, and the vibration climbed through the seat, through my thighs, through the exact delicious spot between my legs. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, mortified by how instantly my body responded. Holy hell—who knew the low, relentless power of a motorcycle engine could make a woman this horny? It combined with the clean Irish Spring and mint scent rising off him and the firm press of his back muscles right against my hardened nipples until every nerve ending lit up at once.
I was wet. Completely, embarrassingly wet.
It had been so long since I’d come that my body was staging a mutiny, slick and aching and ready to betray me in front of God and the entire desert. And we had hours of this ahead—hours of being wrapped around him like this, thighs spread, chest flush to his back, the engine humming straight into my clit with every mile.
I was going to lose my mind before we even hit the highway.
My grip tightened around him on pure instinct.
His hand came down over mine again.
This time, he didn’t move it away right away.
“Better,” he said.
The word rolled through me, low and rough and entirely too intimate for a roadside departure involving cat logistics and mechanical failure.
I leaned closer, because I had to. Because if I stayed stiff, I would fall off and then everyone would be smug at my funeral. My chest pressed more firmly to his back. My thighs adjusted around his hips. My body settled into the shape the bike demanded, and I resented every inch of it because the bike was right.
Mason felt good.
Not emotionally. Emotionally, he was a locked shed full of rusty tools and unresolved damage.
Physically?
Catastrophic.
He looked back just enough for me to see part of his profile. “You good?”
“No.”
His shoulders moved slightly. Almost a laugh.
I squeezed his waist. “Not because of you.”
“Didn’t ask that.”
“I was preemptively clarifying.”
“Clarify less. Hold on more.”
“I still hate you.”
