Page 3 of Their Pup to Tame

Phoenix’s eyes glittered as he chuckled, shaking his head at us when Parker eyed me up and down.

“Even with it sufficiently adorned, I could never see you being anyone’s house queen,” Parker declared.

“Right answer,” Phoenix blurted at the same time as I did.

There was no mistaking the heat in Phoenix’s gaze or the soft admiration I already knew he held for me. We’d spent time sitting around the refreshment bar after Dorian’s shop closed, talking about music and television shows. I kept hoping he’d talk about more serious things, because watching new bruises constantly darkening his skin was slowly breaking me.

“Enjoy your night of cherry decadence,” Parker declared when we reached the parking lot. His car was near the back, while all the motorcycles were parked close to the building.

“Oh, we will,” Phoenix growled with such heat in his voice that I had to adjust myself before I climbed onto the back of his bike.

His body was all solid muscle and soft leather that smelled like machine oil and aftershave. Whatever he used was full of spicy overtones that made me feel like I was hugging a cinnamon stick when I wrapped my arms around him. He covered both of my hands with his, squeezing once, caressing, taking a moment to enjoy the weight of my body pressed against his back. There was no other way to describe it than intimate: a collective pause, a shared inhale, and tranquil drifting in our private bubble, only dimly aware of the sound of Parker’s engine roaring to life.

“Timing is off,” Phoenix grumbled. “He might want to have it looked at soon.”

“You should tell him,” I replied. “If I say anything, he’ll just take it as criticism.”

“Well,” Phoenix said, chuckling as he patted my hand, “technically it is criticism of the awful sound of his engine when he revs it that way.”

Laughing, I squeezed him and rubbed my face against the shoulder of his leather jacket.

“My point exactly,” I replied.

“I’ll say something to him the next time we run into each other,” Phoenix said before the machine roared to life.

I’d always loved motorcycles, losing myself in the rumble and the scent of exhaust. There was something primal and wild about roaring through the night, bodies pressed together, the machine like a living, breathing entity, filling the gaps between souls. So maybe it was a smidge flowery and on the wrong side of purple prose, but I’d ridden dozens of Harleys before and experienced the soft, melty haze that descended over my mind anytime I rode one.

Sure enough, by the time Phoenix pulled up in front of my house, I’d lost track of how many streets we’d ridden down; the start-stop feeling was so sudden that for a moment I sat there confused, trying to sort out whether we’d actually driven or just been beamed from one spot to the next.

“Still want me to come up, or are you too tired?” Phoenix asked, drawing me out of the beautiful gloaming.

“What makes you think I’m tired?” I said as I shook myself, stretched, and hopped off the bike, trying to prove to him that I had plenty of energy left for wherever the night happened to take us.

“Thought you were falling asleep on me,” Phoenix explained.

“Absolutely not,” I grumbled. “I was just enjoying the way dance moves start to flow together in my head whenever I’m on a bike. It just dawned on me how fast a new routine comes together in my head when I’m on the back of one.”

“It was always the same for me,” Phoenix admitted.

“Comedy routines too, now that I think about it.”

“You’ll have to do one for me sometimes.”

“Never tempt a wannabe comedian with a captive audience,” I declared. “Which you will be after I’ve finished stuffing you with cake and cocktails.”

“You make it sound downright nefarious,” Phoenix chuckled, the sound rumbling along the back of my neck as he followed me up the porch steps.

“I can make it do more than sound that way,” I muttered beneath my breath as I unlocked the door and turned on the lights.

“What was that?” Phoenix asked.

He filled the entryway.

On the bike, the size difference between us wasn’t as noticeable as it was with him in my living room, at eye level with the chandelier.

“The place wasn’t built for tall people, was it?” he said, stepping around it to take off his boots.

“Tall people can handle it just fine,” I replied. “Sasquatches, on the other hand…”