Page 13 of Hellfire's Mercy

I can't believe I actually asked him to take me on his bike. More surprisingly, I can't believe he said yes.

The leather jacket he gave me is way too big, smelling of cigarettes and a manly musky odor that I recognize as uniquely his. I try not to obviously inhale the scent as he leads me to his Harley.

"Ever ridden anything with two wheels?" he asks, running his hand along the bike's sleek frame.

The chrome gleams under the parking lot lights, and I understand now why bikers treat their machines like works of art.

I shake my head, watching his powerful fingers caress the metal. "Not even a bicycle since I was twelve."

He mutters something that sounds like "Christ" before swinging his leg over the bike. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his broad shoulders, and my mouth goes dry. The muscles in his arms flex as he adjusts his position, and I find myself staring at the way his jeans stretch over his thighs.

What am I doing? This man is dangerous, probably twice my age, and definitely involved in illegal activities. So why does watching him handle his motorcycle make my whole body heat up?

"Pay attention," he says gruffly. "Left foot here when you get on. Arms around my waist – tight. If I lean, you lean with me. Don't fight the bike's movement. Treat it like a dance."

I nod, suddenly nervous. Not about the bike but about being pressed against him for the entire ride to my apartment.Through the bar's windows, I can see the others watching us, and Angel's encouraging smile makes me blush harder.

"Come on, sweetheart. Don't tell me you're getting shy now." There's that dangerous edge to his voice again, the one that makes my knees weak, that is soaking my panties.

The challenge in his tone spurs me into action. I approach the bike, copying his earlier movement. It's awkward, and I'm grateful for the darkness hiding my blush as I settle behind him. The leather seat is warm from the engine, and it forces me to press against his back. I hesitantly place my hands on his sides, feeling his muscles even through his shirt.

"I said tight," he growls, reaching back to grab my wrists and pull them fully around his waist.

The movement brings my breasts flush against his back, and I have to bite back a gasp. Through his shirt, I can feel the hard planes of his abs under my fingers, the subtle ridges of what must be scars.

The engine roars to life between my legs. Oh God. This might have been a terrible idea. Or the best idea ever. I'm not sure which.

"Ready?" he asks, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. He knows exactly what this is doing to me.

"Yes," I manage to say, proud that my voice only shakes a little.

We pull out of the parking lot, and instantly I understand why people love motorcycles. The wind whips past us, the engine purrs beneath us, and the world becomes a blur of lights and sensations. The first turn has me gasping and clutching tighter to him, which earns me another rumbling laugh that I feel more than hear.

One of his hands drops to squeeze my thigh where it's pressed against his, and heat floods my body despite the cool night air.

His chest rumbles with what might be a laugh or a growl – it's hard to tell over the engine. His thumb strokes my thigh once before returning to the handlebar, and I must suppress a whimper at the loss of contact.

I give directions to my apartment in his ear when necessary, trying to ignore how intimate it feels to speak so close to his skin. Each time I do, his fingers flex on the handlebar, and I wonder if my breath on his neck affects him as much as his touch affects me.

The ride is simultaneously too long and too short. By the time we pull up to my building, I'm a mess of conflicting sensations – adrenaline from the ride, excitement from the speed, and a deep, throbbing ache between my legs from being pressed against him for so long.

He kills the engine but doesn't move to get off the bike. I should remove my arms from around his waist, but I can't seem to make myself let go. The night is quiet now without the engine's roar, making our heavy breathing seem louder.

"That what you expected, sweetheart?" His voice is lower, rougher than usual.

"Better," I breathe against his neck and feel him tense under my hands. "Much better."

The streetlight above us flickers, casting shadows that make everything feel more intimate, more dangerous. Like we're in our own little world where age differences and MC politics and journalism ethics don't matter.

I should say goodnight. Should go inside and try to process everything that's happened today. Instead, I find myself holding on tighter, not ready for this moment to end.

I feel him shift, and suddenly I'm aware of how long I've been clinging to him.

"Planning on letting go anytime soon, sweetheart?"

I snatch my hands back like I've been burned.

"Sorry, I was just... distracted."

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