“But I have to go too,” I protest. I still haven’t closed my legs. It’s like I can’t.
He ignores me, dropping the towel and pulling on his leather pants, going commando again.
“Declan, please.” Fuck, am I begging to be allowed tomove? How twisted is this?
“All right, you can get up,” he says, then gives a smile and a nonchalant shrug. “I can’t help it. I just want to watch you, naked and wet for me.”
He doesn’t need to say it like that, so blatant.
I close my legs, rolling onto my side, concealing myself as best I can as I get off the bed and find my own clothes. He slaps my ass as I pass him, chuckles, then gets a clean shirt from his dresser. I turn my back to him while I pull my pants on.
“Want to wear one of mine?” he asks.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll go home and shower.”
“Then I’ll just have to cover you in my scent again this evening.”
Marking me.
He didn’t say it, but the meaning hangs in the air.
My bra and shirt are in the living room. I gather my boots, and go to get them. He’s dressed before I am, but only just, and waits as I pull my jacket on.
“I’ll be out most of the day, but… dinner?” he asks. “Your place, or mine?”
“Um… let’s keep it open.”
“All right.” He pulls his phone fromhis pocket, looking expectant. I give him my number, and my phone vibrates in my jacket. He tucks his away, leans in, and kisses me. “Got you now,” he murmurs. “No escape.”
I tremble, tensing to try and hide it. Is that comfort, or fear? Fuck, with him, it’s both at once.
He holds the door for me, like a gentleman, slams it behind us, and we take the stairs to where our bikes are parked. I dawdle putting my gloves and helmet on, my hair loose, not in a braid anymore. He’s ready before me.
“I’ll miss you,” he says, taps two fingers to his helmet, and peels out.
I start my bike, sitting there while the engine throbs. Staring after him. Trying to decide.
My heart is barely beating. My stomach’s heavy. Dread and guilt sit evenly in my chest.
Then I curse, slap my visor down, kick into gear, and follow him.
Fifteen
Raven
Ahead of me, Declan rides down the street, his black Fireblade distinctive in the morning sun.
I know he’ll think nothing of me following him for the first mile or two, but after that, I’ll need to be careful.
Motorcycles have small mirrors, and checking behind is an effort. That, and if I’m careful, I can keep a vehicle between us. It all depends how fast he goes, where he goes, and whether he bothers to look.
But I’m betting he has the arrogance of any biker, safe in the knowledge that no one can keep up. Declan’s bike is fast, he rides well, and arrogance? No shortage.
He takes the 101 into the city, the Saturday morning traffic heavy enough that following him is easy. We split lanes, him between the outside and the center, me between the center and inside. I’m in his blind spot; even if he does check mirrors now, he’dhave to see past a dozen cars, catch only a glimpse of me at best, with the angle all wrong. So far, so good.
I wonder at myself, following this man I’ve known but two weeks, slept with twice, fought with, robbed a bank with. And now I’m spying on him.
It doesn’t make me feel good.
