The Cadillac wasn’t so lucky. The sounds of squealing tires and brakes locking up reached her even through the thick helmet, followed by a crash and crunching metal.
She didn’t dare look back. It was enough that the beams of light no longer stabbed the darkness around them. Irish let up on the gas, taking them from warp speed to merely light speed, allowing her stomach to settle…ish.
She’d always wondered why some women chose to ride on the back of a motorcycle instead of riding their own. But wrapped around Irish with the vibrations from the engine radiating through her body, she understood.
Though they were barely more than acquaintances, there was an intimacy in riding this way. The ridges of his abs undulated beneath her splayed hands as he leaned in different directions to move with the bike. Her breasts were pinned against his back, and with her tight skirt riding up her splayed legs, the sensitive area between her thighs pressed into his ass. Every move he made was like a sensual touch that shot pulses of electricity through her erogenous system.
It made her feel all tingly and needy. And frustrated as hell because she didn’t know what to do about any of it.
About fifteen minutes later, they turned off the main road onto a graveled drive that wound its way through a tunnel of Spanish moss hanging from the bordering cypress trees. They came to a stop in front of a small ranch home, almost cabin-like, with dark wood siding and a wide front porch. Off to the left was a garage and an old barn.
Irish cut the engine and helped her off the back before doing the same. The way he swung his leg over the back of the bike made her think of a modern-day knight dismounting from his armored steed.
Oh, hell. Maybe her hand wasn’t the only thing to have been damaged earlier. Her common sense had taken a serious hit, too, if thoughts of him—or any man for that matter—as some sort of white knight come to rescue her from her stone tower were flitting through her head.
He helped her out of the helmet, and she prayed her cheeks weren’t as flushed from the ride as they felt.
“Come on,” he said, turning to walk up the porch steps. “Let’s get you inside before Hissing Ally wants to investigate the newcomer.”
Following him, she tried to run her fingers through the knotted ends of her hair before giving up, snapping an elastic off her wrist and throwing her hair up into a sloppy ponytail-bun-thing. “Who’s Hissing Ally?”
“A stray with an attitude problem. She hangs out under the porch.” Pulling open the squeaking screen door, he paused and gave her a half grin. “She’s okay with Xander and me because we ply her with chicken, but she’s not real friendly to strangers.”
“Maybe she’ll like me,” she said. “I’m pretty good with cats.”
He chuckled and opened the heavy door, holding it open to let her in first. “I bet you are.”
Kat walked in and looked around, trying to decide if the place matched what she knew of the man. It didn’t take her long to come up with an answer.
No.
If she were a real-estate agent, she’d advertise it as an open floor plan. Mainly because there weren’t any walls in the main living area. The kitchen on the right was sectioned off only by a small dining set sitting in the middle of the room. It looked like it originated from a secondhand store and had then been given to a pack of teething puppies as a chew toy.
The living room took up the left half of the room. A couch and loveseat upholstered in buttery-brown leather were placed perpendicular around a gigantic matching ottoman. Scratch that. The ottoman was merely large. The flat-screen TV was gigantic.
She briefly wondered if men were known to compensate for certain things with electronics like they did with fancy cars. The shirtless image of Irish stood proud and masculine behind her eyes… No way.
Along the back wall, three doors were spread out in equal increments as though they should have signs with bold numbers on them, offering people one of three choices like on a game show.
“This is nice,” she said lamely.
“Xander likes the creature comforts in life,” he said.
“Everything in here is his?”
“No.” He pointed to the dining set. “That’s my contribution.”
She smiled widely. “Ah. So that would make you Oscar.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, Felix and Oscar from The Odd Couple.” She waited for recognition to set in. When all she got was a hitch of his eyebrow, she added, “It was a Broadway play, movie, and TV show about two roommates. Felix is a clean freak who likes nice things and Oscar is super laid back and kind of a slob.”
He braced his feet shoulder-width apart and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Did you just call me an uncivilized slob?”
She slapped a hand over her mouth and felt her eyes go wide. He’d helped her more in the last six hours than anyone had in the last six years, and she’d insulted him in less than six minutes of being in his home. Her social etiquette wasn’t merely lacking. It was practically nonexistent.