Page 8 of Wounded Mountain Man

She looked at me thoughtfully. “Do you think couples come up here to have sex?”

Something about the way she asked the question seemed off to me. There was an innocence to it, almost like she was seconds from calling it “doing it” instead of “sex.” The woman clearly didn’t have a lot of experience in that area.

I was surprised to find my body responding to that thought. My dick stirred, threatening to create a bulge behind the zipper of my jeans. I liked the idea of her being inexperienced—of being able to bring her body to life in ways she’d never known before.

“Not sure,” I somehow managed to say. “I guess they might.”

“Have you ever had sex on your bike?”

I’d opened my mouth to make conversation about the view, but her question slammed it shut again. What the actual fuck? Had she just asked me that?

Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as I thought. No, she was definitely innocent.

“Can’t say I have,” I said. “I didn’t get the bike until I moved up here, and…well, I haven’t exactly been dating.”

She was eyeing my bike. Sizing it up. Was she imagining the two of us on it, naked, doing all the things I didn’t dare fantasize about doing with her?

“How would that even work?” she asked. “Would it support both of us?”

She wasn’t being general with her questions anymore. No, this was specific to the two of us. Yes, she was definitely fantasizing about some things, and now I was too.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” I said.

I cringed at my own words. That sounded like I was suggesting she get naked and have sex on my bike. I didn’t mean to assume she wanted to do that. But I heard the crunch of her feet on the ground behind me and knew she was following me.

I climbed onto the bike, keeping both feet on the ground and putting my hands on the handlebars. “You would climb on top of me here. I’d have to hold you up. It might be easier just to stand next to the bike with your hands on it as I stand behind you…”

I didn’t go so far as to say, “as I do you from behind.” That would be crass. I hesitated, waiting for her response, not sure whether she’d shut down this entire conversation. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

“I was imagining touching you when we were on the ride here,” she said.

She wasn’t looking at me as she spoke. Instead, her gaze was cast downward, like she was studying her shoes. Like she was too shy to say any of this while making eye contact.

“I wondered what you’d do if my hands started wandering,” she said.

“Show me.”

At that, her head snapped up. Her eyes were wide. She looked directly at me.

“What do you mean?”

I gestured to the seat behind me. “Climb on and show me what you were thinking about doing. Pretend we’re still riding up here.”

It was far safer than trying it while riding around town. I wouldn’t do anything that would put her in danger, and having her hands on me while I was trying to navigate through town would definitely put both our lives in danger.

She didn’t move forward for what seemed like the longest time, and I didn’t dare even breathe. Would she do it or back out? Was it backing out when she hadn’t committed to doing it in the first place?

But as I sat there, staring straight ahead, hands gripping the handlebars like my life depended on it, she moved toward me. I watched her out of the corner of my eye.

Oh, crap. She needed help getting on. I’d helped her the first time. Should I hop off now or wait until she asked?

But she shocked me by swinging her leg over the seat and climbing on, using my body for leverage. Her arms wrapped around me, her hands going exactly where they’d been during our ride—stacked on top of my stomach.

I felt her body heat through my shirt. It warmed me for reasons that had nothing to do with her temperature.

“Your stomach’s so hard,” she said.

The statement made me jerk a little in surprise. Hard. That wasn’t the only thing that was hard.

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