I expect him to send me an excuse so we can meet later after he’s done playing the golden boy and being with his friends. But then my phone lights up.
Bran
I’ll be there in twenty.
Me
Come out now.
?
Look across the street.
His head whips up and then he looks at me with that adorable stupefied expression. I wave at him and he searches his surroundings before he texts me.
Bran
What are you doing here?
Me
Come out. I have a helmet and I’m fully dressed. No one will know it’s me.
Go first. I’ll follow in my car.
You have two minutes to come outside or I’ll go in there and it won’t be pretty since I might actually break that girl’s hand for touching you.
Don’t. I’ll be right out.
He mumbles something to an older lady in the back, and a few moments later, he storms out of the building. I expected him to be panicking about the possibility of being seen in public with me, but he seems more angry than panicked.
Interesting.
My gaze continues tracking his movements as he strides toward me, and fuck.
I missed seeing him up close in his elegant shirts and pants, looking so hot and fit. Though a part of me wishes he was a bit disheveled like I’ve been this entire time.
But then again, Bran has always been the personification of perfection. He handles himself with rigorous discipline and neurotic control. It’s who he is. That’s why he can be falling apart and look like he’s detached.
I always thought it was a defense mechanism he’d developed, but against what, I don’t know. Since he’s a closed-off asshole and all that.
As soon as he stops in front of me, he watches me for a beat, even though he can’t see anything.
After I throw away the untouched cup of coffee, I pass him the spare helmet and he shoves it on so that only his eyes are visible. They’re intense and fucking angry, but I sense something different there. Lust as ferocious as mine. Longing that almost matches my own.
Almost.
“What on earth are you doing here? Are you a stalker?” he snaps.
“Maybe.”
“You could’ve told me to come over.”
“And you would’ve?”
“I am now, aren’t I?” He releases a long sigh. “Let’s just go.”
“Hop on.”
I throw my leg over the seat and rev the engine as Bran climbs on behind me and grabs the back of the seat for balance. Like he did the first time he was on my bike, which was coincidentally the first and only time anyone has ever been on my Harley.
No matter how many times others expressed their desire to ride it—and then me—I didn’t like the idea of anyone else but me touching this baby.
For some reason, I don’t mind when it’s Bran. In fact, I wanted to get him in this position again after that first night he gave in.
The night after which I messed with his control in an irrevocable fashion. In return, he completely fucked me up.
I rev the engine again. “You can grab onto my shoulders. I don’t bite.”
“Sure about that?” he asks with a note of sarcasm.
“Okay. I don’t bite when I’m riding.”
I expect him to refuse since he’s allergic to any public touching, but he must be comfortable with how the helmets disguise us, because his hands curl around the tops of my shoulders.
It’s not on purpose, but my lips pull into a smile behind my helmet. Fuck. It’s been so long since he had his hands on me, and even though annoying clothes separate us, I soak in the feel of his hands and his warmth radiating down my back.
He shifts behind me and I suck in a sharp inhale, breathing in his citrus and clover scent.
Fuck me.
The smell goes straight into my brain as if I sniffed a line of cocaine.
I slide down the road before I haul him over and do something that will definitely send him running.
It’s windy and I don’t reduce my speed. Gravity forces Bran to be glued to me, his chest pressed to my back, his fingers digging into my shoulders, and his thighs rubbing against mine.
Note to self: I should take him on more rides.
Though that depends on what he says tonight, because I won’t let him have his way anymore.
It’s time we do it my way.
I take a longer route to the penthouse, relishing the feel of his body pressed up against me. And just to fuck with him, I speed up.
His fingers grip my shoulders tighter.
“It’s easier if you wrap your hands around my waist,” I shout over the wind.
“No way in hell.”
“No one will know it’s us. Chill, my dude.”
“I’m not your dude! And I’m not wrapping my arms around your waist like some girl.”
“No girl has wrapped her arms around my waist while I’m riding. Simon might have, though,” I taunt.
His blunt nails dig into my shoulders and I can feel them through the jacket. He’s definitely not doing this to hold on to me.
“One more reason not to do it.” He sounds strained, battling against the anger rolling off him in waves.
Did I mention that I love pushing his buttons?
“What if I tell you no one but you has been on my bike?”
“You just said Simon wrapped his arms around you.”
“I was messing with you.”
“Fuck you.”
I hit the brakes for a bit and he slams further into my back. This time, he wraps his arms around my waist, fingers interlacing at my abs.
I could get used to this.
Just when I’m considering delaying the trip home, the floodgates open and rain pours down, and we’re drenched in seconds.
“Fucking UK weather, am I right?” I shout.
I can feel the rumble of his chest against my back, but he speaks evenly. “It is what it is.”
“Take it or leave it, huh?” I ask, and I’m not sure if it’s about the weather anymore.
“I guess,” he says quietly.
I get us to the building and park my bike in the underground parking lot, then hop off and remove my helmet.
Thankfully, I didn’t get my hair wet. The rest of me is another story, though.
My movements come to a halt when I’m slammed by the most erotic view.
Bran’s white T-shirt has turned transparent, sticking to his muscles and flashing his nipples in a striptease show. My dick twitches and I have to look up so I don’t get an unwanted and entirely embarrassing erection.
I’m trying to prove a point, damn it.
Be cold.
Stay cool.
Don’t fucking give in.
“This is a bit inconvenient,” Bran mutters as he tries to unhook the strap at his chin.
I push his hand away and do it for him, then remove the helmet.
“I could’ve done it myself,” he grumbles
“Or you could say thank you.”
“Thanks.”
Fuck me.
I’m not used to this docile part of him. Yes, he’s polite and shit, but he’s being extra careful today.
Almost as if he’s walking on eggshells.
He glances at me and his eyes widen as they focus on my neck, probably on the Band-Aid there.
My gaze follows his hand as he reaches toward it, but then he fists it and jams it in his pocket. “Is that really okay?”
“Don’t pretend that you care.”
A frown appears between his brows. “Why wouldn’t I?”