That does the trick.
Lyric wallpapers herself against my back, her breasts mashed up against my spine, her helmeted head pressed into the leather of my jacket, right up against my one-percenter patch.
I have to take a few steadying breaths myself. Guess I'll be riding with a hard-on. Good thing I've had a lot of practice at it.
“You ready?” I ask and Lyric nods.
A surge of adrenaline goes through me, like this is my first ride all over again on the back of Landon's shitty old clunker, my third day in the States and already getting into trouble.
Landon.
I shove that thought violently away and start the engine while Lyric begins to tremble behind me. She's a brave bird, that one. If she's that terrified and still willing to try? Well, cheers to her then.
I start off slow, circling the block a few times until I feel her loosen up a bit, her body relaxing into mine instead of stiffening against it. There's only one thing around here that needs to be stiff, and I've already got that part taken care of.
When I think she's ready, I crank up the speed a bit, changing direction and heading north, towards my place. Lyric tenses up again, but only for a minute and after awhile, I feel like she's starting to get it, that epiphany that happens on your first time out. Not everyone gets it, but those who do, they know that the bike and the rider … they're one body, one soul. Out on the road, it's like you're a different being altogether, something so perfect that God had to split you in half to keep things fair.
Add Lyric into the mix … and I'm definitely feeling some bloody supernatural shit.
I take the turns slow, the coast dropping away beside us in a rush of navy and white crested waves, tangled sea withered plants on either side of the road, the perfect frame for popping Lyric's two up cherry. She catches on quick, too, making me grin wide and feral beneath my helmet as I feel her adjust her weight with mine when we make the next turn. That a girl.
I don't go straight home, taking a more scenic route until the sun starts to dip low and the light begins to fade from the sky. We circle around the city, flying beneath the thick, heavy branches of redwood trees, drops of moisture splattering the shield of my helmet as I take us all the way around Trinidad and pull smoothly into my driveway.
“So?” I ask, pulling off my helmet and glancing over my shoulder at Lyric. She's still holding onto me, hands pressed against my stomach, fingers clutching the leather of my jacket. She's so small that she has to squeeze tight to even get her arms around me. I don't want her to let go.
That thought hits me like a brick to the head, and I stand up suddenly, dislodging her grip as I climb off the bike and reach out a hand.
“What'd you think?”
Lyric's fingers are trembling again when she places them in mine. Must be a thing of hers, to quiver like that when she's too full up on emotions. Pint-Size needs to learn to express herself.
“It was …”
“Magical?” I suggest with an arched brow as she takes her own helmet off and glances around with a puzzled facial expression. “Mind-blowing? Orgasmic?”
“Interesting,” she supplies, lifting her chin and looking at me like she couldn't care less. I see right through her.
“You felt it, didn't you?” I ask, stepping close. She steps back and bumps into the bike, a sight for sore eyes in all that leather.
“Felt what?”
“It,” I say, reaching out and pulling her helmet from her fingers. “That cosmic force that binds the rider and the bike.”
“Cosmic force?” she asks. Her turn to raise a brow at me.
“I'm a biker, babe, not a poet. It was the best I could come up with.” I flash another grin and step back, turning to look out across the road at the sea. All I have to do is cross the street and descend a couple hundred steps to get to the beach. It's cold as hell and windy as shit, but at least it's pretty to look at. I stare at the massive rock formations, just barely visible in the weak moonlight. “Like what you see, Pint-Size?”
“Where are we?” she asks, turning to look over her shoulder at the massive white and blue Victorian behind us. “Whose house is this?”
“You have three guesses, sweetheart, but if none of them are Royal then you're dead wrong.”
“This is your place?” she asks, spinning fully, forgetting completely about my luxurious little ocean view. “You?” She glances over at me and then back at the house. “You live here? The president of the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club? In this pretty old house?”
“Well, where did you think I lived? In a cave out in the woods?”
“Wouldn't have surprised me,” Lyric sniffs, running her fingers through her hair. It's so mussed up and sexy right now, the ends tangled and windswept. I want to bury my hands in it, cup the back of her head and pull her mouth to mine. But I restrain myself.