Page 135 of Dirty Hit
“Yeah,” I say. “And? You love that one.”
“I have a black cat,” he says. “I can’t also be the idiot who says ‘sure, let’s go into the woods at night.’”
“Good thing I didn’t say woods,” I lie.
He narrows his eyes. “Dominic.”
“Get your keys,” I say, grinning. “And your phone. And lock the door. I’m not breaking in again tonight.”
“That implies you’re breaking in again at all,” he mutters, but he grabs his stuff off the little console table anyway. He glances up at me, softness flickering in his eyes, then shakes his head and moves past me to the door.
We make our way down the stairs, shoulders brushing occasionally in the narrow stairwell. He yawns halfway down, covering it with the back of his hand, then scowls at me like it’s my fault he’s tired.
To be fair…
Outside, the air is cool and damp, and the parking lot is mostly full, a few cars scattered under the harsh glare of security lights. Brendon stops dead when he sees I’m walking toward my Ducati.
“No,” he says immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” I say, heading straight for the bike.
“I’m not getting on that,” he insists, horror creeping into his voice. “That thing is a death trap. There’s no seatbelt. There’s no doors. There’s nothing between me and the road except your large body.”
“It’s safer than my childhood,” I say dryly, swinging my leg over and settling into the seat. “Come on. I’ve got a helmet for you.”
He splutters. “That’s not reassuring.”
I look over my shoulder at him, raising a brow. “You trust me or not?”
His mouth opens to say no—I can see it—then the word gets stuck somewhere between his chest and his lips. He exhales instead, the sound half annoyance, half surrender.
“You’re an asshole,” he mutters, stalking over. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”
“Promise?” I ask, smirking.
“Dominic,” he warns.
“Relax, Little Sin,” I say. “I’ve been riding since before you figured out how to kiss without bumping noses. I’m not going to wreck with you on the back.”
He flushes, which is unfairly cute. I hand him the spare helmet, and he scowls at it before he takes it and jams it onto his head with more force than necessary.
“It smells like you,” he complains, voice muffled.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
He flips me off, anything else muffled by the visor.
I put my helmet on, start the engine, and the Ducati roars to life, the vibration running up through my legs into my chest. I feel him hesitate behind me, then his arms wrap around my waist, tentative at first, then tighter as the reality of what he’s doing sinks in.
“Hold on,” I say, glancing back once more.
“If you go fast, I’ll throw up on you,” he warns, voice loud enough to be heard over the engine.
“If you throw up on me, I’ll spank you,” I shoot back.
“That’s not a deterrent, and you know it,” he snaps.
I grin and ease the bike out of the spot, onto the road.
