A Wild Ride(4)

"Very observant of you."

He was still holding my arms, as if I was in danger of falling over still. I might have been, actually. Especially if he kept those fiery eyes on me much longer. He was meeting my gaze steadily, but I could tell it took effort. My dress was pressed against my skin all over, and it was nearly translucent now that it was wet, which was a factor I hadn't considered when I bought it. My body was clearly displayed, leaving nothing to the imagination except the color of my flesh, and this man was trying hard, and succeeding, to not look at me.

I appreciated the effort, even as I found myself liking the idea of being ogled for once.

"Well, would you like a ride somewhere?" He asked, jerking a thumb at his bike.

I used the opportunity of his hand releasing my arm to step back, but his other hand was still clamped down on my right arm, firm and gentle and unrelenting. I stopped pulling away and stood in front of him. I should have demanded he release me, but I didn't.

Then I wondered what he'd do if I did demand.

"Let go of my arm, please," I said.

He let go immediately, and I found myself regretting the experiment. His hand had been warm and felt good on my arm.

"You're gonna get sick, ma'am," the biker said. "Why don't you let me take you somewhere. I'll behave, I promise. I'll just drop you off and that's it. I won't even ask for your number."

I hesitated. He looked dangerous, even though his eyes belied the notion that he'd hurt me. Plus, he'd let go as if burned the moment I said 'let go'. He'd released me before I got the word 'please.' 

"I'm just being nice, okay?"

"I probably shouldn't. I've never been on a motorcycle before, and I don't know you," I said. They were flimsy excuses neither of us believed. "I'll be fine, but thanks."

"Oh, come on," he said, exasperated. "You're bleeding. Your wrist looks swollen, you don't have any shoes, and it's raining cats and dogs. Let me take you somewhere, please."

"It's not safe," I said, my last excuse to my more cautious nature.

"What's not, me or the bike?" He sounded offended.

I sighed, realizing he thought I was judging him by his appearance. And you know what? I was.

"Both," I said. "But you're right. Thank you, I would love a ride."

"You don't think I'm safe, do you?" His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to suddenly exude a sense of threat. I wasn't afraid, but I got the feeling you didn't want this man mad at you.

"No, I don't," I said. "You're a biker. You have spikes on your boots and tattoos on your fingers. You might take me to a warehouse and do god knows what to me."

I was moving toward the bike as I spoke, and he was smothering a grin.

"Well, you're mostly right. Except I don't know where any warehouses are." He sat on the Harley and turned the key but didn't start it yet.

"What about the doing god knows what part?" I asked as I swung my leg over the bike behind him.

He grabbed my wrists and pulled them tight around his waist. He was hard as a mountain and twice as big. His abs were like ribbed concrete under my hands. I let my fingers splay and my palms press against him, enjoying far too much the feel of his muscles.

"Well," he said, grinning at me over his shoulder, "I just might do god knows what, but only if you want me to."

He started the bike with a throaty roar, cutting off any response I might have given. He backed the bike up and twisted the accelerator so we jumped forward, the engine roaring and the tires skidding on the wet road. The rumble was deafening, vibrating up my legs and to my gut. It made certain portions of my feminine anatomy tingle in a way that was somewhere between uncomfortable and delightful.

We passed through the intersection where I'd jumped out of John's car, but we hadn't gotten another mile when we passed John's Golf coming back toward us. Apparently he'd thought better of leaving me there. Too late for him.

He saw me on the bike and actually jerked the car into a highly impractical and illegal U-turn. He pulled up next to the bike and pointed a finger at the side of the road, indicating he wanted us to pull over. My new biker friend turned to look askance at me. I nodded and he pulled into a McDonald's parking lot.

John squealed to a stop and I found myself amused that he was driving like a maniac all of a sudden, now that I was with another man. Again, the thought that ran through my mind was too little, too late.

"What are you doing, Leo?" John asked, slightly hysterical, for John.

He was standing beside me, reaching for my arm. I pulled away and he dropped his arm to his side.

"Getting a ride," I answered, using the same calm tone he always used on me.

"Getting a ride? Getting a ride where? And with him?"