Page 6 of Texas
“Flat?” I ask.
Standing, she brushes her hands on her slacks. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“I suppose that’s true, but I never make assumptions.”
Sighing, she looks down at the tire. “Yeah. Flat as hell. And I don’t have a spare. Or reception.”
I glance at the horizon. Nothing but open road and the slowly darkening sky. “Lucky for you,” I say, “I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You offering to save me, soldier?”
“Depends,” I say with a grin. “You planning on running off again once I do?”
The corner of her mouth curls. “That depends on how good you are with your hands.”
Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea. But I don’t say it, at least not yet. I simply walk over to the car, crouch, and take a look at the damage. “Let’s see what we’re working with.” The tire’s toast. No spare in the trunk. I stand, wipe my hands on my jeans, and look at her.
“Well?” she asks.
“Well,” I say. “You’ve got two options. Sit here and wait for someone who might never come—” I let that one hang in the air, and she raises an eyebrow, clearly following along, “—or hop on the back of my bike and I’ll take you into the next town. Twenty miles, give or take.”
She cocks her head like she’s weighing the danger. But I already see it in her eyes, that she’s not the kind of woman who backs down from a ride, especially not one with a little heat under the surface.
“I’m not in a skirt,” she says, glancing down at the tailored slacks hugging her hips. “Guess that’s a sign. “I hold out my helmet. “You ever been on a bike before?”
As I watch, she slides the helmet over her curls like she’s done this before or at least fantasized about it.
“Once,” she says. “But the driver wasn’t nearly as interesting.”
With a grin, I straddle the Harley, nodding behind me. “Climb on, Corvette.”
Swinging her leg over, she settles in close. Real close. Her thighs press tight against mine, and when her hands slide around my waist, they don’t settle politely. One rests low on my stomach, like it’s testing the waters. I fire up the engine, and the vibration between us kicks to life. Her body melts against mine. “Hold on,” I say, my voice huskier than I expect.
“Oh, I plan to.”
The helmet presses her curls against my neck, warm breath fanning across my skin with every bump in the road. I swear I feel her heartbeat in sync with mine, or maybe it’s only the engine and adrenaline confusing my senses. Either way, it’s electric and I’m not sure I want to come down. I pull out, tires kicking up dust, and we roar back onto Route 69. The road curves and dips through the dying light. Her hands stay curious, gripping tighter when I accelerate, sliding up my abdomen when I shift. It’s not just a ride anymore. It’s foreplay. My clit’s awake again. It has been since she touched me. I grit my teeth and focus on the road, but every bump, every vibration, is a reminder of how close she is, how easy it would be to pull over and let me finish what she’s started. But she doesn’t say stop. Not yet.
About fifteen minutes later, she taps my side and points to a gravel lot a little off the highway, tucked behind a row of trees at the edge of the next town. I pull in, tires crunching, and coast to a stop under a flickering streetlight. She dismounts first, swinging her leg over with practiced ease. She pulls off the helmet and fuck me if she isn’t even more beautiful than I remembered. The curls are a little wild now, her cheeks flushed from the wind, lips slightly parted. She looks like sex and trouble and something I could get addicted to real fast.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she checks it. “Service,” she says, then glances at me. “Finally.”
Nodding, I try to keep my voice normal. “You want me to stick around while you call for help?” She hesitates. Only a beat. Then her eyes lock on mine and something shifts in her expression.
It softens, only a little, like she’s letting me see something more than just the flirt. “You got plans tonight?” she asks, voice quiet.
Hot. Damn.
I shake my head. “Just me and the road. And maybe a motel mattress that hopefully doesn’t squeak.”
Smiling, she reaches into her back pocket, pulls out a slim leather wallet, and slides a business card free. “Go here,” she says, handing it to me. “Wait for me.”
Taking it, I raise an eyebrow at all the fancy letters after her name. Kristin Lennox. APRN-FNP. I’m not sure what they mean, but I figure it’s not the time to ask. And there is an address.
“You sure?” I ask, tucking the card into my pocket. Something about the way she handed it over felt less like a suggestion and more like a promise. I get a sense this woman doesn’t play games. She sets the rules, and if I want in, I better be ready to follow.
She leans in, lips brushing my ear. “I don’t ask twice, soldier.”
Then she turns, walking toward the edge of the lot, phone pressed to her ear, hips swaying with every step. I watch her go, the rumble of the Harley still under me, the heat between my thighs building into something that’s not going to wait much longer. I don’t know what’s waiting at that address, but I sure as hell plan to find out.
