Page 28 of Broken Pact

He dips his chin in acknowledgment. “With this. You can trust me with this.”

I blow out a breath. “Fine. But I need a helmet. Nonnegotiable.”

He grins, showing a flash of his teeth in the night. “Of course. C’mere. I’ll get you squared away.”

I step into his open arms and let him pull a dark hooded sweatshirt over my head. It dwarfs me in size, but drenches me in his smell. That crisp ocean breeze. I didn’t realize a smell could be inherently sexy like this. I lift the collar to my nose, and breathe the scent in deep.

“Are you sniffing my sweatshirt?” he says with a chuckle.

“What? No.” I drop the sweatshirt and let the sleeves fall over my hands. “Smells terrible actually. You really should wash this thing.”

“Yeah, well, this thing will give you another layer of protection against the wind. It’s colder than you think on the back of a bike, even during summers here.”

He grabs a helmet from somewhere, and before I get the chance to question what he’s going to wear, he’s slipping my scrunchie free. My hair tumbles over my shoulders in a mess of waves. He smooths it back, slipping the helmet over my head.

It fits snugly, blocking out the ambient sounds of the night around us. I feel a surge of nervous excitement as he fastens the straps securely under my chin. His hand lingers for a moment, his touch gentle and warm against my skin. I glance up at him, and his eyes meet mine, sparking something unspoken between us. The moment stretches, filled with unspoken possibilities.

I clear my throat and step back, breaking the spell. “I don’t know how to get on,” I admit, standing next to the bike.

How many women have been on the back of your bike is what I really want to ask. But I don’t have any right to that answer.

“I’ll help you.”

Before I even start to worry about how the hell I’m going to get on his motorcycle, his hands are on my hips and my feet are off the ground. The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as he picks me up as easily as I pick up a mixing bowl. I blink and I’m on the back of his bike.

“Put your hands here until I get on,” he instructs, pointing to the little bars behind my seat.

I do as he says and watch as he swings his leg over his bike, settling his feet on either side of the machine. It roars to life, like some kind of disgruntled beast being woken in the middle of the night. The exhaust is loud, enough so that if we were in a residential area, I’d be worried someone would call the cops for a noise complaint.

He reaches back without looking and takes my hands in his, pulling me so I’m flush against his back. I follow his lead and wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the warmth of his body seeping through the thick cotton sweatshirt.

He’s surrounding me, invading all my senses.

He taps my right leg twice with his index finger. “Hold on, baby.”

I adjust my hold and exhale a slow breath. The wind rushes past us, billowing the back of my sweatshirt behind me. Cool air zips up my spine, and I bury my face into his back. My heart races with a heady mix of fear and exhilaration as we speed down the empty roads, the world reduced to a blur of lights and shadows.

All too soon we’re in front of my place. The last maisonette flat on the end of the block. Pale cornflower blue with shiny black trim. It’s a three-story apartment, so even though it sounds crowded to have four women living in one apartment, it’s actually quite spacious.

Jagger holds out his hand, and I place mine in his without question. Using it as a guide, I swing my leg over his bike. My leg muscles feel a little like jello, all wiggly and unstable.

“Thanks for the ride,” I murmur, handing him his helmet.

He eyes the second floor of our maisonette—the bedrooms. “That Grant guy know where you live?”

His question gives me pause. “Why?”

Her jerks his chin toward the darkened windows. “Don’t you normally leave a light on?”

My head tilts to the side, and I look from him to my apartment. “Most of the time, yeah. But that’s more for the girls than me.”

“They’re not home?”

I shake my head, slipping my arm free of his hoodie. “Not tonight. Out of town for work, vacationing with family all summer, visiting boyfriend.” I tick off the reasons for my empty apartment.

His hand lands on my arm. “Keep it. Want me to come up?”

Slipping my hand back through the sleeve, I let the sweatshirt settle on my upper thighs. I chuckle. “As much as I enjoyed this little . . . truce of ours, I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”

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