Page 17 of Adam
I look at her, tracing every feature on her body. Slowly, I reach for her orchid hairpins.
“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Easy there, tiger. You’ll hurt yourself with those in.”
I take them off and, without thinking, slide them into my pants pocket. Then I grab the helmet from the tank and place it on her head.
She desperately tries to avoid eye contact, while her breathing becomes more erratic. She’s clearly nervous, and that’s even sexier.
I take my sweet time to strap my helmet on her, reveling in the way my not-so-accidental strokes pull goose bumps from her skin.
She’s got that innocent look. Pure; almost fragile. And maybe that’s what makes me so sure she’ll do whatever I say.
I’ve got to admit, there’s something addictive about her obeying me even with the small stuff. It makes it hard not to push my luck.
These fuckers honk.
“They’re waiting for us,” she says quietly, her voice muffled from the helmet.
“You already forgot our agreement,” I say with a smirk, grabbing the helmet and tugging it toward me, pulling her along with it. “Iset the rules.”
The honking gets more persistent, like they’re trying to drill their impatience straight into my skull.
“I’m not fucking deaf!” I shout, causing her to jolt in fear.
It worked. These fuckers stop honking.Finally.
I turn my eyes to her and let a sinister smirk cross my face.
“Shall we?”
The ride drags on—long, maddening, and weirdly entertaining. These assholes think they’ve got some divine right to tell me how to ride. How fast, how close, how careful.
Sure, I hear them. Doesn’t mean I care.
I watch the road. I always do. I’m reckless, not suicidal. Especially now that she’s riding with me. Fuckers like them wouldn’t think twice about pointing a gun at her—probably quicker than they’d aim at me.
We don’t talk the whole ride. A few times, I twist the throttle harder just to feel her arms tighten around my waist. Damn good for my ego … and my cock.
I can tell she’s not used to riding. And yet, the whole damn time, all I can think about is how she’d look riding me instead.
I’m sick.
After about twenty minutes, we arrive outside a vast mansion, one of those with the huge railing double doors and a garden that looks more Eden than a house garden. Bigger than I expected. Over-the-top, like most things funded by blood money. Exactly the kind of place I’m used to turning into a graveyard for mafia scum.
The giant doors open automatically—or because everything is being watched here—and we enter the house’s garden.
When we arrive at the entrance, I turn off my bike, but she doesn’t unwrap her arms from me.
“I don’t mind staying like this, but they’re watching us,” I mock, taking off my gloves.
“I’m not doing this again,” she says with a quivering voice.
I turn my head. “Riding my bike or pulling me against you?”
“R-riding the bike.”
I don’t reply, but I can’t help that satisfied smirk that spreads across my face.
