Page 70 of Reckless

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Humor me.”

I blink. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. You feeling okay?”

I huff, ramming the helmet onto my head in annoyance. But not real annoyance, because secretly, I love sparring with him. “Just peachy!”

The fake argument earns a glance from Koa halfway across the parking lot before he wisely decides to mind his own business.

“You’re an asshole,” I mutter.

Ghost chuckles, sliding onto the bike. “I’ve been called worse.”

“I’ve called you worse.”

He waggles his brows. “Oh, I know.”

“You realize this means you don’t get to complain when I spend the whole ride criticizing your cornering.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Liar.” I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and climb onto the back of his bike. The seat settles beneath me, and for a second, I sit there, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

He reaches back without looking. His gloved hand finds mine. “You’re gonna have to hold on to me, Sage.”

“I know how motorcycles work, dipshit!”

“I wasn’t talking about the motorcycle.”

My heart stumbles as he lets go of my hands, leaving me no chance to think of anything clever to throw back at him. Coward.

I slide my arms around his waist instead, my hands finding his stomach beneath the weight of his cut, and the first thing I realize is how naturally I fit there. The second is how impossible he is to ignore. The solid warmth of his body beneath layers of leather and cotton. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The faint scent of leather, cedar, and whatever soap he uses somehow smells exactly the way Ghost should. Safe. I rest my cheek lightly between his shoulder blades, telling myself it’s because it’s comfortable.

Not because holding him like this feels far more right than it probably should.

His hand settles briefly over mine where they’re clasped around his waist, just a light squeeze. Gone almost as soon as it’s there, but it is enough to send another ridiculous flutter through my chest.

The engines roar to life one after another until the entire parking lot vibrates beneath us, fifteen Harleys waking the afternoon with the deep, familiar thunder that somehow always settles something inside me instead of stirring it. Brothers slip into formation like they’ve done it a thousand times before, each bike finding its place without a single word needing to be spoken.

Ghost eases the bike into gear, and I tighten my arms around his waist without thinking.

He reaches back long enough to give the top of my hand the briefest squeeze before returning both hands to the handlebars—the gesture lasts barely a second. And somehow I feel it all the way to my heart.

The clubhouse gates slide open and, one by one, we roll out onto the highway, the line of motorcycles stretching across the asphalt like a living thing finding its rhythm. Vegas lingers behind us for a while, casinos and glass towers slowly shrinking in the mirrors until they’re swallowed by distance, replaced by wide-open desert and an impossibly endless sky.

I’ve always loved this part. The moment the city finally lets go. Out here there are no ringing phones, no board meetings, no funding applications waiting in my inbox, no anonymous messages sitting in the back of my mind like goddamn poison.

There is only the road.

The wind pushes against my helmet, tugging loose strands of hair from beneath it while warm desert air slips through the gap at my collar. The smell changes, too, with less exhaust, more dust, dry earth, and sunbaked sagebrush carried across miles of open country.

Without really thinking about it, I let myself relax against Ghost’s back. My cheek settles between his shoulder blades. He’s warm beneath the leather of his cut, solid and steady against me as the bike rolls on. I can feel every shift of his body before the motorcycle responds, like they’re speaking the same language. Nothing about the way he rides is rushed or showy. It’s smooth, controlled, almost effortless, and I realize I’m not holding on because I’m nervous anymore.

I’m holding on because it’s him.

Watching him work is one thing. Feeling it from here is something else entirely. With every shift of his weight, subtle correction through the corners, and smooth roll onto the throttle coming out of a bend, there is never a moment where I wonder what he’s going to do.

He already knows.