Page 9 of The Biker and the Professor
Two burly men in identical biker vests to Nero’s have my SUV out of the ditch and loaded onto a wrecker branded “The Metal House,” in just a few minutes.
“Well, that’s going to cost me a pretty penny,” I mutter to myself as I watch them drive off with my damaged property.
Nero straddles his motorcycle and revs it up, then looks at me expectantly.
“Um, I don’t do bikes,” I tell him.
“How you gonna get home then?”
“Uber? Lyft?”
“Cool,” he says with a shrug. “Call ‘em then.”
“Can I borrow your phone?”
He shakes his head. “Battery’s dead.”
Son. Of. A. Bitch. “Seriously?”
He just looks at me.
Yep. Heisone of those types. The type who always get what they want. It’s either his way or the highway. Quite literally in this case.
“Throw that cold milk away and get on, Professor Blume.”
He’s right. Cherry Garcia is Cherry Wateria at this point.
With wistful reluctance, I toss the cause for my entire night going to shit into the ditch, then take begrudging steps to the motorcycle.
“Place your left foot on the stand,” he tells me, “then hike up and swing your right leg over.
When I do as he instructs, he gives me his helmet. “Put this on.” Once I have it snug on my head, he continues, “Now wrap your arms around me.”
I do, and all the breath leaves my lungs. He feels so good. Hot, and hard, and right. He smells like late nights and pine trees.
“Good?” he checks.
Guiltily so. “Uh-huh.”
With that, he takes off.
Closing my eyes, I breathe him in and let the rush of the wind take over.
In roughly fifteen minutes, when he slows to a cruise in Opal Meadows, it dawns on me that I never told him my address. How the heck does he know where I live?
He rumbles down my street and comes to stop right outside my house.
One would think my ass is on fire with how quickly I dismount his bike and yank off the helmet. Getting into his face, I whisper-hiss, “How the hell do you know where I live?”
He flashes that annoying half-smirk at me. “You’re cute.” Jerking his chin to the house, he orders, “Get in.”
“Just whothe helldo you think you are?” I half-shout at him.
“Your king.” With that, he speeds off down to the cul-de-sac, makes a U-turn, and rolls to a stop at my feet again.
He arches a brow at me. “Still here?”
Peeved, I tell him through clenched teeth, “We need to talk.”
