Page 170 of Revv

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, fighting a laugh. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Liar.”

His wink says I’m absolutely right.

A few minutes later, we’re back on the loaner Ducati, my arms around Revel’s waist as he pulls away from the hotel and heads toward the shop.

The morning air is already warm, heavy with salt and exhaust, and Miami moves around us in flashes of white buildings, palms and too-bright sunlight. I sit close behind him, cheek near his shoulder, one hand resting against his stomach while the other hooks around him a little tighter every time some asshole cuts across traffic like turn signals are optional.

Revel glances at me in the mirror once.

I know that look.

I squeeze his side. “Eyes on the road, pretty boy.”

His laugh disappears into the engine noise.

The Ducati feels completely different now than it did when this whole mess started. Back then, riding with him felt like one more thing I had to stay aware of—his body under my hands, how close I was sitting, whether he could tell I liked being there more than I should.

Now I don’t think twice about leaning into him when we stop at a light.

Don’t think twice about my fingers spreading over his stomach or the way his hand briefly leaves the bar to squeeze my knee before the light changes.

It’s just easy.

That might be the part fucking with me most.

Miami is bright and loud around us, exactly the same as it’s been all week. People crowd patios in barely any clothing, palms bend in the breeze coming off the water, music spills out of open storefronts and somewhere nearby somebody is already blasting bass hard enough to compete with traffic.

The ride to the shop is easy, which is probably the weirdest part.

I’m wrapped around Revel on the loaner Ducati, my thick braid snapping lightly against my back every time he changes lanes, and I don’t spend the whole ride overthinking where my hands are or how close I’m sitting anymore. My chest is against his back, my arms are around his waist, and when he reaches down at a red light to squeeze my knee, I just tighten my hold on him and tell him to keep his eyes on the fucking road.

Apparently, this is normal now.

Dangerous.

But normal.

Revel is in black sweats and a black muscle shirt, tattoos out, which is honestly rude this early in the morning. Every time we stop, my gloved hands wander without me even thinking about it, sliding over his arms, across his shoulders, down his back just to feel the way all that muscle shifts under my palms.

He definitely notices.

I definitely don’t care.

Then the shop comes into view.

And my violet Honda.

Revel turns into the lot and parks the Ducati near the open bay, killing the engine before planting both feet on the pavement. I loosen my arms from around him, but before I can climb off on my own, he’s already swinging his leg over and standing beside the bike.

Then he turns and holds a hand out to me.

I look at it for a second, mostly because, apparently, this man has decided helping me off motorcycles is part of his personality now.

His mouth curves. “Come on, Mama.”

“I have legs.”