Page 89 of Ridin’ Dirty

I chose the triple chocolate mousse cake.

We polished off our bottle of wine, he paid the check, and then it was time to ride.

The sun had disappeared behind the mountains, leaving a dusty blue haze painted over the horizon, the dark of night chasing away the last of the day’s light. Exactly as Pistol warned, the temperature had dropped, and the night wind against my back was cold—but I didn’t care. My belly full, my heart brimming with hope, and the alcohol from the wine coursing through my veins, there was no place else I wanted to be more than riding at Pistol’s back.

He sped up, running through a yellow light, then aimed his Harley toward the on ramp headed north on I90. As he accelerated, I tightened my arms around him and pressed my cheek against the back of his left shoulder.

His Road King rumbled underneath us, growling as he got up to speed, and it felt like we were flying. I wondered how I endured so long without this thrill.

I closed my eyes and got lost in every sensation.

My hair whipping wildly in the wind.

Pistol solid and warm in front of me.

The sound of traffic drowned out as we sped through it.

I tried to remember the last time I felt this free—and then, he was there, against my permission, at the forefront of my mind.

I opened my eyes, but I still pictured him.

Twister.

It annoyed me to think of him on a night like tonight.

What made it worse was remembering how we never went on a ride like this. In the span of three years, I’d been on the back of more than one Stallion’s hog. I belonged to no one; and as much as I wanted to belong to Gillette’s Vice President, I was too stupid to realize all the ways he showed me I never would.

Sure, in the beginning, when I was new, he would take me for a ride—but only around town to grab a bite to eat. In the end, he wouldn’t even do that. Still, I loved him anyway.

Stupid. God, I was so totally stupid.

Lifting my cheek off Pistol’s back, I shook my head clear then propped my chin on his shoulder, staring at the road ahead of us. I didn’t want to be in the past. The present was much better. My situation might not be perfect, and I understood trouble was brewing, but tonight wasn’t about any of that. Tonight was about us.

My husband was becoming less of a stranger by the minute, and I didn’t want to miss a second of it looking in the rearview.

Pistol let go of one of his handlebars and reached for my leg. His hand made contact with my thigh, and he grazed his palm across my bare skin toward my knee. He held on for a beat then gave me a squeeze before he returned his hand to his bike.

Just like that, I was burning from the inside out.

In all honesty, it scared me as much as it exhilarated me.

Eight days ago, I didn’t know a man named Riley.

Now, he was almost all I could think about.

But it wasn’t him I was afraid of so much as the fall.

With Twister, I fell in love with the hope of him. The idea of him. The version of him that was more of an illusion than real. I may have taken his cock again and again, but I never got his passion. I never got his fight. Not like her.

Not like Phoenix.

If the pain of loving and losing Twister was enough to drive me away, to send me crawling back to Missoula—how much worse might it feel to love and lose a man who made reservations and took me on late night leisure rides?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

If this was desperation, I was to be her victim.

If it was stupidity, then I was an idiot.