Page 3 of Viper

Is that wrong? Am I allowed to think strangers smell good if I’m married? I think I am, right? It’s just a smell. I can notice smells. I’m not sure why all this makes me nervous. Maybe it’s because this man is so insanely hot. Maybe I don’t trust myself. Maybe I’m worried that Craig is cheating, because deep down, I’m a hoe in waiting.

No, that’s not it. I’m a lot of things, but I’d never be that girl.

I should never drink again.

The street is quiet, and the only sound is the hum of the air conditioner on the side of the bar. I’m surprised at how quiet things are. I thought the Springs would have more nightlife. Then again, I guess this isn’t the ‘main drag.’ We’re away from all that on a little side street.

A streetlight flickers above the giant’s Harley Davidson. It’s a low set bike with handlebars that stretch far out to each side. I’m sure there’s a special name for the build, but I don’t ask.

“You first.” He nods toward the bike and takes my hand, helping me onto the saddle seat before sinking in behind me.

My breath picks up as his warmth surrounds my body. I shouldn’t notice how huge he is as his frame wraps around me to reach the handlebars, but I do. I’ve never felt so small in my life, and I like it.

My clit throbs and I hate myself. Why is my clit throbbing? She should not be throbbing!

It’s probably the alcohol. People say whiskey makes them horny. Apparently, it does me too. This is a normal reaction to a substance my body has never experienced before. That’s all. It’s just the liquor.

I blow out a heavy breath as the engine starts.

Oh God, this is worse. Vibrations rumble up through my thighs, and the combination of his strong frame behind me and this feeling between my legs is too much to bear.

I need to get off this thing. I can’t have an orgasm on a bike while my husband is in New York. That would make me a tramp. I’m a lot of things tonight, but a whore isn’t one of them. I’ve decided that already.

I twist back to tell the man I need off, but he’s kicking up the stand and we’re backing out of the parking spot. I have to hold it together. I have to think about anything other than this giant currently holding me in place.

So, I do.

I think about my husband. I think about the way he acted on that call. I think about his heavy breathing. I think about how uninterested he was in my safety and how he couldn’t wait to get off the phone. I think about the past few years and how distant he’s been. I think about therapy where we barely get anything accomplished. It’s one thing to go. It’s another to implement the things we learn. Sometimes I think the only reason he likes me is because I don’t make waves.

When he comes home late, I smile and point him toward his waiting dinner. When he gets angry and yells, I brush it off and give him a pass. When he forgets my birthday or our anniversary, I forgive him immediately.

Yeah… I probably need to have a talk with him.

I purse my lips and stare out at the city as it passes by. I hadn’t realized how bad this neighborhood was when the sun was up. In the dark, this place is a whole new world. Dealers stand on the corners, prostitutes stride up and down the street in tight neon dresses, and most of the homes are condemned.

Abe’s arm brushes against mine and the bike rumbles between my legs as my back lays against his chest. It’s not intentional, but there’s not a lot of room for me to go. I don’t think the bike was meant to be ridden like this.

He leans forward, his voice low and breathy as he says, “Where are we taking ya?”

“Oh.” I collect myself, trying to remember where the hell I’m staying. “I’m at the hotel on Wilderness Avenue, at the Goldilocks Inn.”

He nods, inadvertently scraping his beard against my cheek. The tickle sends the aching throb back into overdrive.

Thank God we’re only going two miles.

Chapter Two

Viper

Ten Years Ago

I don’t give rides to drunk women, so this is new.

Am I supposed to help her inside? Am I supposed to text her husband to let him know I’m not some sack of shit? Am I supposed to make sure she doesn’t choke on her vomit? What’s the protocol here?

Part of me considers calling Jane down at the bar to see what would be best, but human nature takes over as the woman stumbles off my bike and nearly face plants in the parking lot.

Clearly, she needs help.

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