…
Her hand was itching to touch his. The desire to be connected to him physically was like electricity, stirring the air. Given how he’d touched her only moments ago, her body was still vibrating with need. She craved the feel of his strong hand in hers, and the force of that desire surprised her.
Yet it felt entirely natural to want that from Becker.
As they walked to the lot together, she lifted her fingers a few times, reaching toward him, then dropping them back down to her side, trapped by this strange indecision. She wanted to stroll to their vehicles together, fingers clasped. That warm, comforting image was so potent right now, and it felt like the right gesture after their morning together. Surely he was the kind of man who’d hold her hand, especially after that near-O she’d just about achieved.
But then, there was something about holding hands that felt like a promise of more. More times, more moments, more connection. Almost-orgasms were one thing; deeper intimacy was another. Holding hands while walking together would be another line to cross. It was the quieter hint of where things were headed; it was the sweet contact between lovers who were connecting outside the bedroom, too. Holding hands would be some kind of symbol that acknowledged what was happening between them.
And whatever was happening was bound to become far too treacherous for her heart. She felt healed from the loss of her father; she’d made it through, she’d survived, and she’d learned. She lived on the other side of the pain and the grief. That healed heart—such a precious gift that so many people never reached, or took for granted when they did—needed protection, didn’t it? The heart could be a fearless creature, prone to parading around town naked and unafraid. It needed the brain to keep it safe from its own propensity for foolish acts.
Even on a temporary basis. Perhaps especially since she and Becker could only be temporary. She didn’t want to head north with an aching in her chest from missing him. Because she would miss him.
She kept her hand to herself. She kept her heart shielded safely in its cage where it could behave.
When she reached the parking lot, he eyed her motorcycle. “Dangerous beasts. I’ve seen far too many accidents on bikes.” He opened the door of his truck. “Why don’t you let me pick you up tomorrow?”
“You’ll be my chauffeur, then?”
“Yes.”
She gave him the address, he repeated it once, then tapped the side of his head. “Now it’s there. In permanent ink.”
“Be careful of permanent ink,” she warned, and she had a feeling neither one of them was talking about writing implements. Especially when he moved first, brushing away a strand of hair that had dared to flutter across her cheek. The slightest touch from his fingertips lit up her insides, like a neon sign turned on after dark. Her breathing turned shallow as he tucked that hair behind her ear. Then he lowered his hand.
“Be careful on that beast.”
“Don’t worry. The speedometer is broken, so that makes me go extra slow.”
His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Extra slow?”
“Just kidding. It’s just the oil gauge that’s broken. Trav is going to help me fix it,” she said with a wink.
He narrowed his eyes. “You had me there for a minute.”
“I know. It was cute,” she said as she pulled on her helmet and straddled the seat, and she couldn’t deny how much she liked that he was looking out for her. That she was part of his natural instinct to save and protect.
Chapter Eleven
Becker didn’t like the way Megan rode home on her bike. Fine, there was nothing innately daredevilish in her style—she rode at the speed limit, stopped at lights, and didn’t weave into oncoming traffic. But he’d tended to enough accidents and been called to the scene of more than he could ever count. Motorcyclists were always the ones who wound up losing when they tangoed in a crash.
In his early days in Chicago, he was the first responder to a motorcycle crash that hadn’t even been anyone’s fault. As the eyewitnesses told it, the biker had been waiting to make a left turn onto the on-ramp. The light changed, and the biker clipped the curve too wide, bouncing hard, once, twice, three times, on the road. The guy wound up in a back brace for months.
Even as he pulled into his driveway, cut the engine, and headed inside for a quick shower, he couldn’t shake the images. Couldn’t stop picturing the same thing happening to Megan. He could even imagine in stark detail being called to the scene—down to the crackle of the scanner and the smell of the gasoline. Then her face, bruised and bloody. He shuddered. He had to halt that image.