“You've got the look, now get on the bike.” Royal reaches up, a helmet I hadn't noticed before dangling from his inked up fingers. He slips it onto my head and then slides his fingers up my throat to the chin strap, tightening it up and then grabbing my gloves off the bed. “Ride with me, baby. Let go a little.”
I stare at the gloves in his outstretched hand and then back up at his face through the helmet's shield. The man just walked in here and saw me dancing around like an idiot, looking stupid as hell in an outfit that doesn't suit my personality at all. This is all a fantasy, just a big girl's dress up session.
But I can't help myself.
I want to go with him.
Just for tonight, I tell myself. Just one last fantasy to add to my collection.
Tomorrow, we'll have our meeting and then this will all be over. I can cut Royal out of my life and focus on my career again. He'll fade away like a good memory, something to look back on and smile at.
What a silly thought that turns out to be.
If my cock was any harder, it could cut fucking diamond.
When I walked into Lyric's house, I expected to find her reading a book or watching a movie or something. I absolutely did not expect to see what I saw.
What a fucking vision.
Lyric in leather is every man's wet dream, a feminine figure in black, the fabric clinging to her curves and emphasizing everything that's sexy about her. And the hair? The makeup? Listening to her speak my fantasy from last night aloud?
I just about came in my pants.
“I'm not sure if I can do this,” she says, pausing just outside her front door, eyes flicking up and down the street like she expects everyone to be staring at us. I don't see anybody around, but if they are then screw them. Who the hell cares?
“Bollocks,” I say and then gesture at the bike. “That's complete shite and we both know it. Get your ass over here.” Lyric turns a glare on me and I grin, realizing as I do that I'm absolutely one hundred percent the dumb shit that Dober said I was. Tonight, I didn't come over here to ask about the FBI or the mayor's office or any of that other crap.
Tonight, I came over here because I wanted to see Lyric.
God help me if any of the boys find out about this.
“What happens if we crash?” Lyric says, reluctantly coming down the steps to stand next to my Swinger. The bike's a beauty in white and red and chrome, ready to hit the highway for a long trip if the urge ever strikes my or the club's fancy. I bought it a few years back from SuckerPunch Sally's, an American manufacturer out of Arizona. Got my bobber from 'em, too. I know enough about motorcycles that I could build or modify whatever I wanted, but who the hell has the time for that shit?
“Then this,” I reach down and cup her ass in a firm grip, “will keep your skin from making love to the pavement.” Lyric shoves me back, but I think I can see her cheeks—the ones on her face, of course—reddening beneath the shield of her helmet. “But we won't crash.”
“How do you know that? Per mile traveled, motorcycle deaths outnumber automobile deaths twenty-six to one.”
“Bullshit,” I say swinging my leg over the bike and settling into the leather seat. I slip my helmet on and give her a look that says I'm not buying what she's selling. “Get over here and wrap your arms around me, Pint-Size. Shouldn't be a problem, right? I was inside of you, after all.”
“My mother once grounded Kailey for a month when she caught her on the back of a boy's motorcycle.”
My grin ratchets up a notch.
“Can your mum ground you now?” I ask, watching as her body tightens and her hands curl into fists. She doesn't seem the type to fall in line easily, but there's definitely something bothering her. Whether it's her parents or not, I don't know. But for some strange reason, I feel like I almost want to. First woman I've met in forever that I give two shits about and I could never have her as my old lady. A deputy mayor and an MC president do not belong together, for so many reasons.
Not that I'm there yet. I just met the girl for Christ's sake.
But the fact that I feel like I could get there? That's terrifying in it's own right.
“I'm about to come over there and drag you onto the back of this bike, Lyric Rentz.”
A shiver travels through her and I watch as her chest rises and falls with a massive breath.
“Okay, okay, okay, I can do this,” she murmurs, moving over and swinging her leg over the bitch seat behind me. Probably shouldn't call it that around her, should I? “Where do I put my arms?”
“Wrap 'em tight around me, love,” I say, making fun of her imitation of me. “And squeeze—hard. Don't want to fall off and crack that pretty little helmet I gave you.”