Page 51 of Heat Clinic

“So… what are your thoughts on moving?”

ChapterThirteen

EMILY

I pickat my outfit as I stare at my reflection and consider changing for the twelfth time. Sam’s been flirting with me all morning by text and helping me decide. I think he just likes looking at my butt because he always asks me to text him photos of the back when I try on a skirt or dress that’s fitted. My phone chirps, and I read his message.

Sam

That’s perfect, baby. No panties.

Emily

Keep wishing

I roll my eyes as I text him back, smiling down at my phone. There’s zero chance of me going without a nice full-coverage pair of slick panties the day after a heat ends when gravity is still making things messy. The skirt is a fitted black pencil skirt, and I’ve paired it with a white satin blouse. The high neckline fastens at my throat, and the sleeves are short. I put on a pair of gold earrings and slip into my heels.

You’re such a dork lol

That’s hot

Wanna spank me later?

You’d like it too much

I’m ready

Are you here yet?

Your carriage awaits, baby.

I have butterflies in my stomach when I turn my lights out and head to the door, locking it behind me, and walk out to the parking lot outside of my apartment. I sling my bag across my body and put away my phone and keys.

This is a nice restaurant. Fancy. Expensive. I hope this outfit is classy enough.

Sam’s chariot is a motorcycle. He sits on it, his thighs spread wide for balance, and holds a helmet out for me. He’s wearing black on black with a nice dress shirt tucked into slacks and his black leather jacket on top of it.

I stop in my tracks. “You specifically told me to wear a short dress or skirt.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of always been a fantasy of mine to have a hot woman get on my bike and hold on to me while her tight little skirt rides up her thighs.”

I take the helmet when he hands it to me and stare at it. “This is going to mess up my hair and makeup. You know that, right?”

His face falls. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, baby. I’m an idiot. Did you want to drive? I don’t have a car, only my bike. Or we can call a taxi if you think you’ll want to drink.”

I glance between his sleek motorcycle and my shitty, ancient commuter car. The paint is rusted and chipped, and every side’s been dented over the years. There’s no way I’m driving that to this restaurant. That’s embarrassing. And if we wait for a taxi, we’re going to be late. Plus I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. It’s… tempting. I’m trying new things now, apparently. Maybe the new Emily rides on motorcycles with her future packmate?

“No, it’s fine. Can you help me put it on and tuck my hair in, though?”

Sam helps me get the helmet on and tucks my hair up so it won’t get messed up by the wind. I’ll fix my makeup when we get there if we have to. He holds the bike steady as I climb on and figure out how to get my feet up out of the way. I do need to hike my skirt up a bit. I grab him around the middle and hold on to him, my fingers laced together over his stomach.

He reaches back and grabs my thigh and squeezes it, then starts his bike and kicks up the stand and zips through the parking lot toward the exit. It’s thrilling. The wind whips at us as the bike rumbles underneath us. There’s a spike of anxiety mixed with the hitch of anticipation and the warm glow of euphoria.

We weave through traffic and I relax into it, melding against Sam as he drives us across town. When we pull in, he drives through the valet loop and parks his bike himself. Getting off the bike is harder than getting on. He gives me a hand as I step onto the gravel and pull my skirt back down, and then he helps me take the helmet off and I check my hair and makeup in the side mirror of a black sedan.

“Ready?” He offers me his arm and we walk into the restaurant. It’s stunning. A chandelier made of squiggly bits of glass stuck together in a ball hangs in the foyer. The walls and ceiling are white on white with wainscoting and trim on every panel. Glass and brass sconces drop from the high ceiling. The floor is wood with different colored woods set in a repeating pattern that looks like twelve-pointed stars.

The hostess is dressed in a tight black dress with her hair twisted in a chignon and bold, red lips. She greets us with a polite smile. “Can I help you?”

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