Emily
THE MOTORCYCLE ACCELERATES and the few inches I had established between me and Oz: gone. My body slides forward, colliding into his, and we click together like two puzzle pieces. Heat rushes up my neck and onto my cheeks. My thighs are too close to his, too tight against his body and this is way more intimate than I have been before with a guy.
Even when the two of us kissed.
Oz veers left, away from Olivia’s, away from the main road, and the entire motorcycle pitches to the side. My heart thunders and my fingers clutch not only at Oz’s belt loop, but at the material of his jeans, and his hips.
Oz glances at me over his shoulder as the bike straightens out. “Lean with it, Emily.”
Right. Lean with Oz and the bike. Got it. The narrow road curves ahead and this time when Oz and the bike tilt, I move along with it. Oz releases one of the amazingly high handlebars and massages my knee before returning his hand to the grip. Whether in reassurance or to affirm I mastered the curve I don’t know, but either way, I sit higher.
The wind whips through my hair and onto my face and I shut my eyes for a brief second and pretend that I’m flying. There’s something energizing, something hypnotic, something inside me that begs to burst out of a cage in search of freedom.
The motorcycle kicks forward and our speed increases. Beams of sunlight filter through the towering trees and green foliage blurs together as we fly over the road. From head to toe, my body vibrates with the loud growling of the powerful machine.
My knee still tingles from where Oz laid his fingers on me and I’ve never been more aware of my hands in my life. I should let go of Oz’s body, but I can’t. Belt loops weren’t enough and my fingers have somehow edged up and onto his sides. Oz is solid. Yes, definitely solid. Every inch of him that I touch is tight muscle.
Oz is a year older than me, but somehow he seems older, wiser and hotter than any other guy I’ve known. Just the way he rides his bike creates this overabundance of confidence.
Warm sensations I’ve never experienced before blossom through me. We enter another curve and I lean with him. I like how in sync I’ve become with Oz and the motorcycle. Like we’ve merged into one.
The purr of the engine deepens and Oz eases the bike to a stop. His feet hit the ground and he turns the machine off. It’s as if all sound in the world ceased, or maybe I’ve gone deaf because there’s no way anything can be this still or silent.
The wind picks up and the silence is frightened away with the roar of the trees bending. Both Oz and I shift with the flow of air and Oz doesn’t move the bike until the breeze gentles.
Oz kicks down the stand and the bike tilts, but not too much. He sets a hand over the fingers that I laced together across his stomach. Oh, hell, I’m plastic wrapped to him. I drop my head onto his shoulder and it places me closer, and closer is not what I need.
I go to unglue myself, but Oz squeezes my fingers, sending a jolt of electricity up my arms. “You okay?”
I have to clear my throat to speak and that just sucks. “Yes.”
Oz slides his fingers against mine and a fluttering occurs in my stomach. It’s a light fluttering. Ticklish even, and my survival instincts scream at me to get off this motorcycle.
Placing distance between us, I remove my hands and when I swing my leg over, I accidently tap it against the bike. The material of my jeans rides up and a burning pain flashes against my skin.
I yelp and jerk to get away and, because I possess no grace, end up with my hands flailing in circles in an attempt to find balance while I stay precariously upright on my heels.
Oz snatches my wrist before I begin the descent to the ground. In a heartbeat, he’s off his bike and he yanks me until my body collides with his. I melt with the pressure of his hand on my lower back.
“Are you okay?” he asks again. Concern softens his face and damn, he’s handsome.
Because any and all words are trapped in my windpipe, I nod. His black hair is a mess. Spiked up into multiple tufts and I’d give anything to touch it right now. To brush it away from his forehead. To caress the shadow forming on his jaw.
Oh, holy hell, he’s warm and solid and I enjoy being pressed up against him too much.
“Did you burn yourself?”
Does he think he’s that warm? “What?”
“You cried out. Did you burn yourself on the exhaust pipe?”
“No.” Probably. I step back and Oz lowers his arms. “I’m fine.”
I suck in a surprised breath at the view. “Wow. This is what you call a pond?”
Oz