Page 65 of Broken Trails
I sit there, stiff as hell, arms folded across my chest like a complete idiot.
“The visor’s still up,” he says without looking back. “You’ll wanna close it when we ride.”
“Oh.” I fiddle with it clumsily. “The little flap thing?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, Freckles, the little flap thing .”
“Right. Obviously.”
He taps the top of my knee. “You’re gonna need to hold on.”
That gets my attention. I stare at the back of his head like it just grew horns. “Hold on?”
“Yeah. Y’know… arms around me,” he confirms, glancing back with that shit-eating grin. “Unless you plan on testing Wattle Creek’s asphalt.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why does this feel like an elaborate plan of yours?”
He laughs then. Deep and throaty. Husky in that unfair kind of way that scrapes over skin and sinks into bones. It oozes out of him like confidence was stitched into every goddamn cell he’s got. And I hate—absolutelyhate—how it lights up every nerve ending in my body like a live wire. How it pulls heat to the surface. How it makes me feel things I’ve worked too hard to bury. No. Nope.
Don’t go there, Zoe.
This is a favour. That’s it. Just like Imogen dragging me here tonight, Michael’s just being… helpful. Nothing more. He’s taking me home. That’s all. I inhale sharply and lift my hands, placing them tentatively on his sides.
Which is a mistake.
His torso is solid. Carved like granite. And the smell—God, thesmell—it hits me the second I lean in. Cigarettes. Motor oil. But underneath it all… something that’s justhim. Raw, masculine, familiar in a way that catches me off guard.
He tsks. “That’s not gonna cut it.”
I frown, about to ask what the hell he means, but I don’t get the chance. His hands—his hands—close around mine. Firm, butcareful, pulling my arms tighter around him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My palms splay across his stomach, right over the fabric of his shirt. The heat from his skin bleeds through and settles into my palms.
And suddenly, I forget how to breathe. Because it’s not just contact.
It’s connection.
Holyshit.
This isn’t casual. This isn’t flirty. This isn’t the dumb kind of touch that happens in clubs or awkward hugs or meaningless grazes. This is deliberate. This is him making sure I’m safe.
Secure.
And that realisation undoes me. Because I haven’t touched a man like this in… I don’t even know how long. Years, maybe. Not since—
No.
Not Liam. I need to piss off any thought of him from my mind. Because he doesn’t belong there anymore. Not ever. Especially in this moment. Because this isn’t that.
This isn’t begging someone to stay. This isn’t apologising for being too much. This isn’t shame wrapped in longing. No, this is different. It’s gentle. Simple. Oddly grounding.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
I’ve spent so long preparing for impact, for things to go sideways, for people to leave. And now, there’s Michael. Quietly anchoring me to the back of his bike with one steady touch, one patient breath, like it’s no big deal.
And yet for me… it kind of is.
My fingers twitch slightly, tightening out of reflex, and I feel his stomach flex beneath them. I hope he doesn’t notice.
“You ready?” His voice cuts through the chaos in my brain. It finds me in the middle of the storm I’ve built in my own chest.
