Page 36 of Fire Me Up
I took the helmet, our fingers brushing. Even that small contact sent electricity racing up my arm. I was so screwed.
“And for the adventure cat,” Dylan continued, pulling something else from his bag, “cat goggles. They’re specially made for pets.”
I stared at the tiny goggles—orange-tinted with an elastic strap—and burst out laughing. “You got cat goggles? For real?”
“Hell yeah. Your cat deserves to ride in style.” He looked ridiculously proud of himself.
I knelt and unzipped Bacon’s carrier just enough to try fitting the goggles. Bacon, unsurprisingly, had other ideas. He batted them with his paw, then grabbed the strap with his teeth.
“Okay, buddy, maybe no goggles today.” I zipped him back up, making sure he had room to move. “Some cats just aren’t ready for high fashion.”
Dylan laughed, helping me secure the carrier to the rack he’d built. The setup was impressively well thought out—padding to minimize vibration and straps to keep everything in place. OnceBacon was secured, I pulled on the helmet and climbed into the sidecar. The seat was behind his carrier, so it was like Bacon sat in my lap, but securely fastened to the vehicle.
It was… lower than I expected. Sitting in it, I felt practically on the ground, the asphalt uncomfortably close. The sidecar itself was comfortable, padded with a small windscreen, but the perspective was disorienting. My palms itched for handlebars. I’m a driver, not cargo.
“Everything okay?” Dylan asked, watching my face.
“It’s a little… exposed.” I adjusted my position, scanning traffic, exits, mirrors—habit. “Like a big truck might run me over and think it hit a speed bump.”
Dylan grinned. “No one’s gonna run you over. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
Relax. Right. I wasn’t built for passenger seats. I’m the guy who drives, who plans, who carries people out. But I made myself unclench my fists. I could let him lead. For a little while.
He swung his leg over the motorcycle, and I tried not to stare at his thigh muscles. He pulled on his own helmet, slid the key in, and the engine roared to life. I checked on Bacon, who seemed completely unfazed. The little traitor was already curled up for a nap, apparently unaware we were about to risk our lives on the open road.
The first few minutes were terrifying. Every car felt too close; every turn had me gripping the sidecar, certain we’d flip. But Dylan drove with a confidence that gradually eased my fear. He navigated traffic smoothly, took corners at careful angles that kept the rig steady—hyperfocus in motion, all precision and care.
We turned onto a quieter mountain road, traffic thinning, and I finally relaxed enough to enjoy it. The sensation of speed without enclosure was exhilarating—the cool air rushing past, the scenery unfolding around us in panoramic spring greens dotted with wildflowers.
But the best view was Dylan. From my position, I could watch him control the bike—the steady grip on the bars, the fluid lean into curves, the solid strength of his thighs hugging the tank. Sun caught in his purple-tipped hair where it peeked out from his helmet, and even through the tinted visor I could see the intensity of his focus, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.
This wasn’t just lust. It couldn’t be. Not when the simple sight of him made my chest ache with something dangerously close to adoration. And not when I realized how much it rattled me to hand over control—and how much I wanted to do it again, with him.
Chapter 12
Dylan
Gael knelt as he unhooked Bacon’s carrier from the rack I’d built in my sidecar. His fingers worked the buckles with careful precision, muscles flexing under his t-shirt in a way that made my mouth go dry. He murmured something to the orange furball, who blinked back with typical feline indifference. Three weeks ago, I’d never have pictured myself planning a day trip with a hot firefighter and his cat, but here we were.
I was trying not to be stupidly excited about it, but it was a losing battle.
“Almost ready?” I called over, snapping the saddlebag closed and looking around for my keys. I patted my pockets, frowning. Didn’t I just have them? I spun around, looking on the ground next to the motorcycle to see if I’d dropped them.
Gael looked up with that smile that did dangerous things to my insides. “Keys are sitting on your motorcycle seat. And Bacon’s being cooperative. He must be excited to hike.”
The plan had always been for Gael to ride in the sidecar with Bacon, but for the entire ride I’d fantasized about what it wouldbe like to have him ride pillion instead—pressed against my back, thighs gripping mine, arms wrapped around my waist. The intimacy of sharing a seat, feeling every shift of his body against mine as we took the curves. But I’d chickened out and suggested the sidecar, telling myself it was safer for Bacon.
This was just hanging out. Two guys who occasionally fucked, taking a day trip together. Nothing romantic about it. Definitely not a date.
Gael straightened up, wincing as he adjusted the weight of the cat backpack on his injured shoulder. I was at his side before I even realized I’d moved.
“Let me help with that.” I reached for the strap, fingers brushing against his collarbone. “Is your shoulder still bothering you?”
“Only when I do something stupid like try to put on a fifteen-pound cat backpack by myself.” He laughed, but I caught the tension around his eyes.
I adjusted the straps, redistributing the weight away from his injured side. Being this close to him was a special kind of torture—breathing in the scent of his cologne, feeling the heat radiating off his body.
“Better?” I asked, stepping back before I did something stupid like kiss his neck.
