Page 63 of Strelitzias in Spring

She rolls her eyes and slips her arms into the sleeves of my jacket. “Don’t be dramatic. I’ll be fine. I’d feel bad about making you ride without a jacket, but you’re the one who prevented me from driving home in a nice, warm car, so I guess this is payback.”

Scoffing, I stow the food in the hidden storage compartment, grab my spare helmet, and pull it over her head. “You mean a car, to a party, to a car, to your apartment with a guy who wants to fuck you?”

“Jack and I discussed that we are just friends, thank you very much. Stop painting him out to be a bad guy.”

“And if I weren’t there tonight to stop his advances?”

Her eyes are hidden by the visor of the helmet, but I can almost feel the anger in her glare. “We would have arrived at the same conclusion. You’re under the misconception that I needed you to swoop in; I was handling Jack fine, and we were having a nice conversation before you stormed over like a disgruntled bear.”

“Just get on the bike, Serena.” She huffs but throws a leg over the seat and slides back, getting into position on the back of my bike like a seasoned old lady. It disorients me how good she looks with the metal between her legs and how right it feels to have her there.

Whenever I would ride with Kelly, I felt itchy and claustrophobic despite the open air surrounding us. Her hold was always too tight, her posture too rigid to make it comfortable. With Serena, none of the discomfort I expected is there, and the reasons why I’m holding myself back—our different seasons in life and the fact that she’s Celeste’s friend—seem like convenient excuses. Something about seeing Serena with another man tonight pissed me off. I’m trying hard to identify the feelings as something other than jealousy, but I’m coming up short. When Jack leaned over her in that shitty booth, I wanted it to be me pressing against her. When she walked him out of the bar and hugged him goodbye, I wanted it to be me whom she wrapped her arms around. Somehow, this woman has embedded herself under my skin, and it both annoys and excites me.

Taking one last survey of her form, I clip my helmet into place and straddle the bike. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when her slim arms wrap around my stomach. Without thought, I glide one hand over her thigh, just above her knee, and squeeze. I can feel Serena’s body shudder against me and tighten my hold, silently warning her to stop moving.

Kicking up the stand, I twist the throttle and slowly pull out of the lot and onto the main highway. I’m a careful rider and cautious driver; all too often, there are stories of deaths due to motorcycle collisions and unsafe operation of bikes. But with Serena on the back, I take extra care, going slower than I typically would and signaling my turns earlier than necessary.

The ten-minute ride turns into twenty with my measured speed, and by the time we pull up to my house, a modest but modern bi-level, I’m fucking frozen. Tapping on the garage door opener attached to my left handlebar, I pull into my garage before kicking the stand and shutting off the engine.

In the absence of my bike’s engine, the silence between me and Serena is deafening. Unlatching my helmet, I pull it off and hang it over the handle before standing up and turning to her.

“You going to get up, princess, or are you planning on sitting there for the rest of the night?”

“Wolf,” she stops, pulling her helmet off and holding it between us like a life preserver. “Where are we?”

“My house.”

“Why would you bring me to your house?” Her brows are furrowed, and she looks genuinely confused.

“You showed me yours, so I figured I’d show you mine.”

“That’s not funny, Wolf.”

I shake my head, reach for the helmet, and tug it from her hands. “I’m not trying to be. Now get your ass up; I want to eat my tacos before they get too cold.”

“Wolf.”

“Fuck it,” I mutter when she still doesn’t move. Tossing the helmet on the bench by the door that leads to my kitchen, I circle her waist and throw her over my shoulder, leaving her legs dangling by my torso and my jacket drooping over her head. Keeping one hand on the back of her thighs, I lift the seat to reveal the hidden storage where I stowed the food and grab it.

With long strides, I reach the door and throw it open, pausing to close the garage before I kick my shoes off. The entire time I walk, Serena beats at my back, demanding that I let her down and stop manhandling her.

Walking into the kitchen, I bend down and deposit Serena on the counter, clenching my jaw to keep from laughing at her red face and furious expression.

“I told you to get up.”

“You could have given me a freaking minute, Wolf.”

“Sure, and then another minute and another. You were taking too long, and no amount of overthinking is going to change the outcome that you’re here, in my house, and we’re about to eat Mexican food I paid for. Call it a date, call it a consultation for your tattoo; I don’t give a shit. But I’m hungry, I’m tired, and the only thing I want to do is eat a fucking taco. So—” I pause, stepping back from the counter. “I’m going to eat my food. If you want to join me, you’re more than welcome to, but if you want to sulk on my countertop because I carried you into this room like the princess that you are, then have at it.”

Skirting around the kitchen island, I pull out one of my stools and sit before pulling out the contents of the bag. Setting Serena’s food in front of the second stool, I dig into my food, savoring the way the meat, onions, and cilantro melt against the tortilla. “Fuck, that’s good,” broadcasting my enjoyment by taking another large bite. Part of my behavior is performative, an enticement to have Serena share a meal with me, but a larger part is because I’m truly enjoying the food. I’m about to take another bite when she slides off the counter and stomps to the vacant seat.

“I am not a princess,” is all she offers before she sits and peels the lid off her stew. My eyes lock on her mouth as she blows on the still-hot liquid before taking a careful sip of the broth. She swallows the mouthful, and I have to tear my eyes away from the column of her throat and the way her muscles move.

It’s fucking pathetic.

“Mm, this is good.” She repeats the process over and over again, blowing on the steam before placing the spoon inside her mouth until her container is half-empty. “I am going to eat this entire thing.”

I hear her words but can’t formulate a response; a bead of liquid lands on the corner of her mouth, and she licks it, pulling her tongue back into her mouth before she sucks on her lower lip.

---