Page 104 of Riding the Sugar High

Goosebumps scatter all over me at the heat radiating from the contact spots between us, and every time, I’m tempted to turn this bike around and bring her home. Continue where we left off at the market.

But we’re almost at our destination, so I focus on the road until we slow to a stop.

My heart’s still racing with the residual thrill as my helmet comes off.

I let out a slow breath and hang it on the handlebar by its strap when Primrose asks, “What is this place?”

Her hands are still on me, her thighs clenched against mine. And she’s warm. Soft. I’ve been fighting a hard-on for most of the ride, and if she doesn’t stop touching me right now, I’ll lose that battle.

“Just a nice view,” I say as her hands abandon my chest. But it’s not just that, and I don’t want to stop and think about why I brought her here, to the place I love the most in the world.

I let my eyes roam down the hill, enveloped by the breathtaking panorama that stretches before me. The air is crisp, and the gentle breeze carries the scent of earth and blooming flowers. The world unfolds in layers of greens and gold, a patchwork quilt of fields that seem to go on forever.

I twist to look back at her, but her visor is down, so I can’t tell for sure how she’s feeling. “Arms, Barbie.”

“No, I’ll get down by myself.”

All right. I stand and give her my hand to lean on. She takes it and, awkwardly raising her leg over the bike, hops down.

“Chin,” I say as I approach. Once the strap is snapped open, Primrose takes the helmet off, her flushed cheeks, ruffled hair, and misty eyes making my breath catch.

She looks like she’s been fucked.

She looks like she’s been fucked because she was riding behind me on my bike.

“Wow,” she says as she turns to the view, and unable to look away from her, I nod.

Wowsounds about right.

“Logan,” she whispers, and for the life of me, I can’t imagine what she’ll say next. “I think I want a bike.”

Huh?

She chuckles, her eyes wide. I can almost see her blood pulsing. “It was like—like flying! Like I was free or...light as a feather. Like nothing else mattered except following the bike’s movements with my body. Like...like...”

Huh.

She gasps. “When you turned, there at that big intersection, I was sure my knee was going to touch the ground, but it didn’t, and then all I could think about was that feeling—like a buzzing in my veins...” She paces back and forth, her eyes darting around as she searches for the right word.

“Adrenaline,” I mumble.

I can’t believe she loved it. It makes me like her even more.

“Yes!” She points her finger at me. “That’s it! Adrenaline. It was so cool, and—wait, do you think we can take a longer route back?” She gasps. “Oh my god, can you teach me how to ride?”

Woah. She’s never riding my bike. Cute that she’d think she could even hold it up. But it does make my chest warm, how much she liked it. It’s nothing special, right? Women love bikes. Some women must.

But she’s not some women. She’s Primrose.

“This place is so beautiful,” she says, walking to the hill’s edge as if the previous topic is done.

I join her side, anxiety slapping me in the face when she leans against the handrails. Someone who tends to fall without moving a single muscle should not be that comfortable this high up. Her eyes eat up the gorgeous view, and she slips into a contemplative silence, only the rustling of the wind and the melodic birdsongs to keep us company. As casually as I can, I place a hand on the railing in front of her.

“Can we see your farm from here?”

I turn to the lines of neatly planted crops forming geometric shapes. The afternoon sun bathes the landscape in a warm glow, casting long shadows, and birds soar overhead, riding air currents. Gently grabbing her arm, I move it until I point it home. From here, it looks doll-sized, and besides the red roof, it’s hard to recognize anything else around it. “That’s my house.”

“Oh, yes, it is.” She turns to me, her eyes dancing on my lips for a second. “So if that’s your house, then are we looking at...”

---