Page 37 of Brewing Up a Bad Boy

“Hey, I liked you, Poppy. Not someone you were trying to be,” he said.

“I don’t think I felt comfortable showing you who I was. Like when you jetted us to Vienna for the ball. I wanted to be with you. If that meant straightening my hair and wearing a ball gown, then yes, please, I’d change everything about myself I could to keep that ride going.”

“I didn’t realize,” he said.

How could he know that the life he took for granted would be so tempting to her? He wouldn’t have realized that she was still trying to mold herself. Her mum said that that was what your early twenties were for. Also for big fuckups. Poppy had scored on both counts.

Which was why she was so determined to stay firmly in the friends-with-benefits zone with Ali. Only a few more days and she’d be back home, and Ali would be out of her everyday life.

Online, he didn’t make her heart race or her blood rush through her veins. Like he did now, making her hot as she felt his hips nestled between her thighs.

Of course, once they were off this damn Ducati that would help too.

“It’s cool. So this place you booked us to stay...two rooms?”

“Of course. We agreed sleeping together had stupid written all over it. Personally, I think it had ‘explosive’ written on it, but who am I to argue with a woman?”

He wasn’t wrong. It was taking all of her willpower just to keep her arms lightly around his middle on the turns. To not let her hand snake down between his legs the way she had so many times in the past when he took her out on his bike. Being with Ali had unlocked her sensual side, and he’d always been game to try anything she fantasized about. Their time together had been hot. Nothing had been off-limits.

God, this was why she should have said no to the wedding. She should have just signed the damned Lancaster-Spencer Tea Makers deal and stayed safely in Birch Lake.

But she wanted more from life than hiding. And Lancaster-Spencer had fucked her out of control of her own tea blends once. She wasn’t willing to allow that a second time.

If that meant days of cold showers and masturbating, then she’d do it. As she’d just reminded herself, it was only a few more days.

She turned her head sideways, resenting that the helmet kept her from leaning forward and resting it against Alistair’s back.

It was odd how he still hadn’t accepted that most of his plans backfired. Having Poppy pressed against his back for over three hours had seemed like the perfect way to remind her that the attraction between them wasn’t something that should be ignored.

Partially he’d also wanted to test his own self-control, which was now at an all-time low. Each time he moved into a turn, her arms wrapped around him, and her entire being molded to him. The power of the Ducati was addicting and put him more in touch with that rebelliousness he’d been working so hard to shed. On the back of the bike it was easy to pretend he was in control leaving the past behind...except today with Poppy clinging to his back.

When he pulled into the parking lot of the Airbnb he’d booked for the night, he had to take a moment to adjust himself while she was taking off her helmet.

She shook her hair as she did, her long natural curls flying around her head. She smiled as she tried to fluff them up. “I bet I look a sight.”

One that he wanted to fill his eyes with. Staring at her wasn’t wise, because Poppy was too perceptive not to know that the entire ride had been a slow seduction for him. Her voice so soft and intimate in his ear as they talked. Her hands on his body as she clung to him on the turns and then kneading his thigh when she slipped them down his sides.

“Always a welcome one,” he said.Lame.Why was it that he had no rizz with her? He used to know just what to say.

“Thanks. You too,” she said. “How’d you find this place?”

“George recommended it. Bronte is into crystals and all that woo-woo shit.”

“Like me.”

“Just like you.” Fuck. He shouldn’t have called itwoo-woo shit.

“Yeah, anyway, he brought her here for their anniversary.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “I did think it was odd you didn’t want to be fake married at his wedding.”

“We were still real married then,” he said sardonically. “Also, everyone knew we were still fighting.”

“Did they? How?”

“You posted on your private social media account aboutthe bag of dicks you married. Bronte noticed it and flagged it up to George, who told Mum and Dad.”

“I didn’t realize,” she said.

---