Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Very well-endowed.
“I need to get you home,” he rasped against my lips. “Or else I’m gonna bend you over this fucking bike.”
Another pussy pulse. In fact, that may have been a full body pulse.
“I am gonna do that.” He brushed hair from my face before tucking it behind my ear. “But maybe not right outside a party full of assholes.” He nodded his head in the direction of the thumping music.
I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. Keeping my mouth shut was good because I feared I would tell him I didn’t care about the assholes and beg him to fuck me against the bike right there and then.
And although that prospect was erotic and exciting at that moment, a voice at the back of my head told me I’d eventually regret doing something like that.
Me getting bent over a motorcycle was not the kind of publicity I wanted.
He moved backward, but not before kissing me quickly again on the lips, slipping his tongue in once more so I could taste the champagne he’d sipped from my glass.
I stood rigid and somewhat unsteady on my feet as he stepped away and did something near his bike.
“Helmet,” he said, slipping something tight onto my head.
I didn’t complain, though I worried about the helmet hair I’d be sporting when we got to our destination. Never in my life had I worried about how my hair looked more. And I was not a woman bothered by that kind of stuff.
But safety was more important. I’d always muttered curses about the motorcyclists I saw on the highway doing ninety without helmets.
Safety.
A good thing.
“Hop on,” he said, once he was situated on the bike.
It occurred to me then that I didn’t know this man. I knew that he was some kind of famous daredevil and people seemed to be impressed with him. I knew he was a great kisser. I knew he possessed the ability to make my pussy pulse.
Other than that? Nothing.
He could be a serial killer.
Or just a really big douche.
I didn’t hesitate.
I hopped on the bike.
Two
I did not have a misspent youth.
My youth was uneventful and full of semi-normal things. Well, not so ‘normal’ since my father died when I was thirteen, but I did my best not to think about that. Even then, I shoved my grief away. I studied a whole lot. Had a few friends. A part-time job, a boyfriend or two because I thought I had to, though they never really excited me. I went to prom.
I did not go through a rebellious stage. There was no partying, no yelling at my mother, no bad boy boyfriend. Sure, I really liked Jess on Gilmore Girls and had my very first orgasm thinking about some leather-clad rebel on a motorcycle promising me a wild time.
But I did not bring those fantasies to life.
Mostly because we didn’t have leather-clad, motorcycle-riding bad boys in my small town in New Hampshire. And by the time I moved to the city and had access to a larger pool of men, I was already working in restaurants most of my waking hours. There simply wasn’t time to indulge in relationships.
Therefore, I had never been on the back of a motorcycle.
It turned out I liked it.
He drove fast. Too fast. Just like I’d requested.
We took turns at dizzying speeds.
The wind bit into my body, cold and fresh and hurtling through the clothing that wasn’t suitable for a bike.
Kane was warm, hot, an inferno against my front and my arms which were tight around him.
It was the most reckless thing I’d ever done, getting on the back of a bike with someone I barely knew. Holding them in such an intimate way. I could feel his rock-hard abs underneath my hands and felt the utterly wild urge to dip my hands lower, to the buckle of his belt. Lower even then.
I didn’t, of course. But I wanted to. My pussy, throbbing from the roaring vibration of the bike underneath me, wanted me to.
The city passed by in a whirl of lights. He wove through the New York traffic with ease, taking it at speeds that likely weren’t legal and definitely weren’t safe.
But I trusted him.
I’d gone insane.
I trusted a man I’d just met, a man who was nicknamed after Satan himself.
I did not have a death wish, and I hadn’t thought I had a wild side. But there I was, hurtling through the city on the back of Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes’s motorcycle.
We stopped in front of an old brownstone, Kane somehow finding street parking right away, which was near impossible, even for a motorcycle.
My heart was roaring as loud as the bike when he turned it off, my breaths coming in hard pants as he got off and then took the helmet off my head.