Page 47 of Dash

“I would have eaten the whole fucking thing if you’d served it. The bit that’s not burned looks good.”

The compliment hits me in the chest like a crossbow bolt. “Sorry I fucked up.”

He turns me in his arms, so I’m facing him. “You didn’t fuck up anything.”

“The carcinogenic food group behind you says otherwise.”

He laughs, and I mirror him. Burned food and my mother forgotten. “Come on. I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Woman, quit asking questions and just trust me, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, because it’s crazy, but I do trust him.

TWELVE

DAYNA

He waitswhile I lock up my flat, his mouth tight when it takes a couples of attempts to secure the door.Fucking lock.

Then he leads me out of the building to where his bike is parked. The sunlight gleams off the chrome, shimmering, and when we approach, there’s not just one helmet attached to the back.

There’s a second in purple and pink.

He unhooks it, his eyes never leaving mine as he undoes the chinstrap inside. “I guessed what size you need, but if it doesn’t fit, we can get it swapped out.” He lifts it to put it on my head, but I stop him.

He’s shattering me, and he doesn’t even see it. “You bought me a helmet?”

“I want you safe on the back of my bike.”

I stare at him like he’s a figment of my imagination before I whisper, “Are you real?”

I don’t expect him to answer. I didn’t even mean to say it aloud, but he steps into my space, his hand to my belly, his thumb brushing over my ribs. His mouth presses to mine, and my legs become wobbly as he claims me reverently.

When he’s done, he pulls back, his eyes blown as he takes me in. “Does that feel real, Dayna?”

I bob my head. “It feels very real.”

“Good. Get used to this. Get used to me.”

The threat of possession under those words makes my thighs clench. He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, though, securing the helmet on my head. His fingers scrape over my throat while he buckles the strap, and every touch makes my breath hitch. He gives the wobble after it’s in place, a satisfied grin on his lips.

I wait while he pulls his own helmet on and then gets on the bike. I climb on behind him, my chest pressed to his back like he said.

He reaches behind, dragging my arms around his waist, his hands resting on mine, and my stomach flutters before he starts the bike.

It rumbles to life, and I cling tighter to him as he hits the throttle.

And then we’re moving.

I almost shriek as the wind whips around us, but after a moment I relax, trust him to keep me safe and I let go of everything.

The argument with my mother.

My worries about money.

Fucking James Critchlow.

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