Page 16 of Doomed
“Fine,” I say, my voice tight with reluctance as I lean down and grab my can of mace to put it back in my purse. “But this doesn’t mean anything. You’re giving me a ride home because you eliminated all my other options. Dick move by the way.”
His smile widens. “Whatever helps you sleep tonight, princess.”
“Stop calling me princess.”
“Sure thing, baby.”
I roll my eyes, but follow him to the motorcycle. “I’ve never been on one of these before,” I admit, eyeing the machine.
“Don’t worry,” Knox says, handing me a helmet. “Put this on.”
I stare at the helmet in Knox’s outstretched hand, hating everything about this situation and that I’m forced to accept his “help.” He manipulated circumstances to manufacture this scenario. Still, most of all, I hate myself for the thrill that runs through me despite my anger.
“I’m not getting on that death trap,” I protest, even as I take the helmet from him.
“You afraid?” His voice is teasing.
“No,” I lie, struggling with the helmet strap. “I don’t trust your driving.”
Knox steps closer, pushing my fumbling fingers aside to fasten the strap beneath my chin. His knuckles brush against my throat, and I swallow hard, refusing to acknowledge the goosebumps racing across my skin.
“There,” he says. “Perfect. Now, where do you live?”
I bite my lip, unsure about giving this asshole my address, but it’s not like I have another option, so I reel it off to him.
He swings his leg over the motorcycle, the engine roaring to life beneath him. “Hop on, princess.”
Gathering what’s left of my dignity, I awkwardly climb onto the seat behind him, my dress riding up to the top of my thighs. I tug at the fabric, but it’s impossible to maintain any modesty.
“Where do I...” I start, unsure where to put my hands.
“Around my waist,” Knox instructs, reaching back to grab my wrists and pull my arms around him. “Hold tight.”
I reluctantly press against him, my chest flush against his back, thighs hugging his hips. I hate this—hate how solid he feels, how the muscles in his back flex as he adjusts his grip on the handlebars. Most of all, I hate how I respond to his warmth and the faint scent of his cologne mixing with leather.
“Ready?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Just drive,” I mutter.
The motorcycle lurches forward, and I instinctively cling tighter, pressing myself against him. Every curve in the road, every stop at a light, forces me to hold on, to feel the hard planes of his abs beneath my fingertips, the strength in his thighs as he balances the bike.
I close my eyes, hating how good it feels.
The motorcycle slows as we pull up in front of my apartment building. I feel electrified, every nerve ending awake and humming. The vibration of the engine between my legs,combined with the way I’ve been pressed against Knox for the past fifteen minutes, has left me in a state I’m not proud of.
I’m aroused. And I hate it.
Knox cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening. He swings his leg over the bike and turns to me. “Need help?” he asks, offering his hand.
I want to refuse, to prove I don’t need his assistance, but my legs feel like jelly. Placing my hand in his, I try to ignore the warmth that spreads from his touch.
“Let me get that for you,” he murmurs, stepping closer. His fingers brush my neck as he unbuckles the helmet, sliding it off gently. His eyes never leave mine, watching for my reaction, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say stiffly, stepping back to create distance between us. “Goodnight.”
I turn to leave, but before I can take two steps, his hand wraps around my wrist, tugging me back. I collide with his chest, his face inches from mine.
“How about a proper thank you?” His eyes drop to my mouth. “A kiss for your knight in shining armor?”
