Page 8 of Sweet Addiction
“Ticktock, Dillan.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to fuck off. I mean, why would I get on the back of any man’s bike, let alone this particular man’s? But when I look at him, it’s like all my good sense flies right out the proverbial window. “Fine.”
Carefully, I move next to the man and the bike, a cloud of freezing-cold smoke slipping from between my lips with each word. “But I swear to God, Rome Beneventi, if you kill me, I will haunt your ass.”
The lazy laugh that rumbles from his chest warms me as I place my shivering hand in his, and for the second time in the past ten minutes, I ignore the electricity zinging between us. “I mean it, Rome.” I narrow my eyes on him and the small space left behind him. “Will I even fit?”
The words no sooner leave my lips than a slow, predatory smirk spreads across his face. “Oh...It’ll fit.” He winks and tugs me closer.
Nowthisis familiar territory.
We’ve danced this dance before.
Him chasing me, and me telling him to fuck off.
It’s kind of been our thing this year.
But tonight . . . something in the air tastes . . .different.
I look from him to the space at the back of the bike.
Unsure. Or maybe more sure than I want to be.
“Slide on behind me, princess.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you use too many nicknames?” I huff and run a hand along the black leather seat, stalling.
“We all use nicknames,” he argues—not exactly surprising since everyone in our circle of friends does have a nickname. They might as well be printed on the birth certificates, they’re used so often. Everyone except me.
“Not me,” I tell him. “You’re the only one who’s ever called me something else.” My words get lost on the whipping wind as the fat, wet snowflakes begin falling harder.
Damn it.
This is such a bad idea.
I know it, even if I’m trying my best to ignore the nagging little voice currently screaming it at me. My eyes dance between us again. Torn... but not.
It’s just a ride home.
A ride with Rome Beneventi.
What could go wrong?
Oh, fuck it.
I blow out a shaky breath and hold my dress down as I stretch a leg over the back of the bike as gracefully as possible, which isn’t exactly graceful, suddenly ridiculously thankful for twenty years spent in a ballet studio. “Jesus, this thing’s huge,” I murmur and feel the rumble of Rome’s chuckle before I scoot back until the metal bar at the back of the seat presses against my ass. “Okay...” I clear my throat. “Now what?”
Rome turns toward me and looks at the space between us before his nearly navy eyes drag up my body, from the tips of the boots pinching my toes to the top of my hair that’s going to look like hell by the time we get to my house. His eyes narrow, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “This isn’t gonna work.”
Is he . . . “Are you mad?”
Maybe I shouldn’t have left the bar.
The tension between us thickens until it’s so thick it threatens to choke me, and I swear this man growls like a feral fucking dog.
What the hell?
Before I get to question the sound, my breath hitches as his hand wraps around my waist, his big palm gripping me as I’m dragged against him.
