Should she tell him? She wouldn’t want to walk around with a smudge on her cheek. Not that anyone would notice. “You, uh”—she waggled her finger at his face—“have a smudge on your cheek.”
He scrubbed at his cheek, missing it. “Did I get it?”
“No. Let me.” She stepped up to him and brushed gently at the spot. “There.” Her hand felt as if she’d just touched a warm blanket.
“Thanks. You just leaving?” he asked as he zipped up his leather jacket.
“Yes. Lost track of time.”
“How will you get home?”
“The subway.” She shrugged on her backpack.
“You’re not walking there alone?”
“Since the subway won’t come to me, I’ll have to go to it.”
His expression grim, he remained silent a moment. “No. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“On your death machine?”
“My what?”
“Your motorcycle.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. A rare sight, one that made her belly tingle and her knees wobble.
“It’s not a death machine.”
“If you say so. But almost five thousand people die each year riding a motorcycle.”
“Yeah, and hundreds of people are mugged each year in New York City. I promise to get you home safely.”
Well, here was her chance to mark ‘death machine ride’ off her GALL. “All right.”
She locked up the house and followed Ian out to the street. He slung his leg over the bike and handed her the helmet.
“What about you? Helmets are required. You’ll get a ticket.”
“I’ll risk it.” He snapped the strap under her chin.
The helmet engulfed her, making it difficult to see. “But what if we’re in a wreck? You could be injured.”
Ian released a throaty chuckle that she felt all the way down to her toes. “My head’s too hard.”
She’d never heard him laugh. She liked it. “But—”
“Get on the bike.”
Eying the bike, she was uncertain how exactly to climb on.
“Just throw your leg over.”
Hmm. Easy for him to say. She approached the bike, the realization dawning on her that she would be straddling not only the bike, but . . . him. Sampson and Delilah!
“Come on, Millie. I’m not getting any younger here. And it’s cold.”
She took a deep breath and slung her leg up and over and tried to sit at the far end of the seat, away from Ian.
He twisted around, eying her. “You’re going to have to hold on if you don’t want to find yourself sitting in the middle of the street.”
“Right.” She swallowed, then scooted closer to him.
“Wrap your arms around my waist and hold tight.”
The bike roared to life, and it was like sitting astride a fire-breathing beast. The vibration shook her to her core. They hadn’t even pulled away from the curb and she was breathless with exhilaration.
“And lean into the turns.”
“Lean into the turns,” she repeated. “Got it.” She pressed her chest to his back. Heat radiated off him, warming the front of her. She’d never been this physically close to a man before. Unless you counted rush hour on the Brooklyn-Queens Crosstown.
“You ready?” Without waiting for a response, he took off.
Mother of Hamlet, it was cold. She squeezed her eyes shut and finally gave in, pressing her head against his back, using his broad shoulders as a windbreak.
She didn’t know what stole her breath more. Being up against the solid wall of Ian’s back, or riding this snarling beast of a motorcycle. Ian. Definitely Ian.
She spread her fingers across a lean stomach, undoubtedly solid muscle. Her legs enveloped his harder ones— much harder ones—so that she felt every flex of his muscles as he weaved the bike through the multitude of taxis and city busses. Very aware of her breasts against his back, she wondered if he felt them too.
They stopped at a traffic light. Ian twisted around. “Where do you live?”
Oh yeah. That would help. She told him her address and he gave her a funny look. The light changed and he took off again.
This time she forced herself to keep her eyes
He scrubbed at his cheek, missing it. “Did I get it?”
“No. Let me.” She stepped up to him and brushed gently at the spot. “There.” Her hand felt as if she’d just touched a warm blanket.
“Thanks. You just leaving?” he asked as he zipped up his leather jacket.
“Yes. Lost track of time.”
“How will you get home?”
“The subway.” She shrugged on her backpack.
“You’re not walking there alone?”
“Since the subway won’t come to me, I’ll have to go to it.”
His expression grim, he remained silent a moment. “No. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“On your death machine?”
“My what?”
“Your motorcycle.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. A rare sight, one that made her belly tingle and her knees wobble.
“It’s not a death machine.”
“If you say so. But almost five thousand people die each year riding a motorcycle.”
“Yeah, and hundreds of people are mugged each year in New York City. I promise to get you home safely.”
Well, here was her chance to mark ‘death machine ride’ off her GALL. “All right.”
She locked up the house and followed Ian out to the street. He slung his leg over the bike and handed her the helmet.
“What about you? Helmets are required. You’ll get a ticket.”
“I’ll risk it.” He snapped the strap under her chin.
The helmet engulfed her, making it difficult to see. “But what if we’re in a wreck? You could be injured.”
Ian released a throaty chuckle that she felt all the way down to her toes. “My head’s too hard.”
She’d never heard him laugh. She liked it. “But—”
“Get on the bike.”
Eying the bike, she was uncertain how exactly to climb on.
“Just throw your leg over.”
Hmm. Easy for him to say. She approached the bike, the realization dawning on her that she would be straddling not only the bike, but . . . him. Sampson and Delilah!
“Come on, Millie. I’m not getting any younger here. And it’s cold.”
She took a deep breath and slung her leg up and over and tried to sit at the far end of the seat, away from Ian.
He twisted around, eying her. “You’re going to have to hold on if you don’t want to find yourself sitting in the middle of the street.”
“Right.” She swallowed, then scooted closer to him.
“Wrap your arms around my waist and hold tight.”
The bike roared to life, and it was like sitting astride a fire-breathing beast. The vibration shook her to her core. They hadn’t even pulled away from the curb and she was breathless with exhilaration.
“And lean into the turns.”
“Lean into the turns,” she repeated. “Got it.” She pressed her chest to his back. Heat radiated off him, warming the front of her. She’d never been this physically close to a man before. Unless you counted rush hour on the Brooklyn-Queens Crosstown.
“You ready?” Without waiting for a response, he took off.
Mother of Hamlet, it was cold. She squeezed her eyes shut and finally gave in, pressing her head against his back, using his broad shoulders as a windbreak.
She didn’t know what stole her breath more. Being up against the solid wall of Ian’s back, or riding this snarling beast of a motorcycle. Ian. Definitely Ian.
She spread her fingers across a lean stomach, undoubtedly solid muscle. Her legs enveloped his harder ones— much harder ones—so that she felt every flex of his muscles as he weaved the bike through the multitude of taxis and city busses. Very aware of her breasts against his back, she wondered if he felt them too.
They stopped at a traffic light. Ian twisted around. “Where do you live?”
Oh yeah. That would help. She told him her address and he gave her a funny look. The light changed and he took off again.
This time she forced herself to keep her eyes
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