Tastes Like Candy

Six

Six

Michelle

The last thing she needed, given her kissing realization, was to be pressed up against the man on the back of his bike. But she didn't feel like testing him. Any faint illusions she'd entertained about him respecting women or being a secret gentleman were shredded at this point. She didn't trust him not to tie her to his bike. So she fetched her helmet from the seat of Fox's Harley, snapped it on, and obediently settled onto the bump seat behind her tormentor.

Not a good idea.

There was an immediate stirring just beneath her skin, an electric crackle of awareness. It was one thing to see him, another to be right up against him, feel the heat radiating through his clothes and cut, have the security lamps blotted out by his shoulders, smell the smoke and salt of his skin.

She didn't want to put her arms around him. She wanted to keep her distance. She was furious with him, offended, upset, homesick, and the last thing she needed was to fall into the old trap of seeking comfort from the one who'd caused her strife.

But he twisted around and said, "We can't go until you hold on." It was an order.

So fine. She'd have to do it.

It was like hugging a tree trunk, the shocking hardness and solidity of him. She felt the contours of pecs and abs through his shirt, warm against her palms.

The bike started with a sharp growl, and they were off.

~*~

The bike had always held a special magic for her. All bikes. The overpowering spell of motorcycles. Her mother had ridden behind her father when she was in the womb, and she'd been born with a sensitivity for the vibrations of the machines, the friction of tires on pavement. And so, though she was angry with the man she clung to, she felt the red wash of emotion ebb to low tide, overtaken by the familiar peace of the road.

The wind brushed cool fingers against her cheeks; the sky fell in plum and midnight waves overhead, netted with stars, brushed with soft wisps of cloud, gray against the dark of night. She pressed her face to Candy's shoulder and breathed the smell of the desert, so different from the moss and damp and city-stink of home. Loneliness swelled in her chest, pricked her eyes with tears.

She wanted home so badly. Wanted a pint with Tommy. Wanted to sit and watch Albie make his beautiful furniture. Wanted to people-watch with Raven at their favorite café while Cassandra played with her phone. Wanted to catch up with Miles on one of his infrequent visits. She wanted to carry flowers to her mother's grave, and have dinner with her dad.

She thought of Paul, yet again. Why was the homesickness bringing him to mind again and again? In absence of love, she was craving something like passion.

The bike dipped and then stopped. Candy killed the engine, and she realized, with alarm, that they were nowhere near the clubhouse.

They were parked on the shoulder, at the edge of an open field of scrub grasses and sand; she watched the stalks bow in the moonlight, saw the sand glimmer faintly.

She tensed. "Where are we?"

"Somewhere alone." He had his composure back, his tone soft, calm.

All the fight had gone out of her voice, too. It was just a whisper when she said, "And why would we want to be alone?"

When he turned to her, she slid off the bike, so she was on her feet and facing him.

He swung his leg over, and they were feet-to-feet, her small ones to his enormous ones. He folded his arms and looked settled, unbothered. "I figure you want to scream at me. And you can. But I'd rather not do it back home in front of everybody." He grinned; she saw the gleam of his teeth. "No sense having you embarrass the shit out of me."