Chapter 5
June
I pushed open the door of Honeybee Books, my mind still tangled in the pages of “Four of Hearts,” and slammed directly into a wall of leather and masculine scent.
The world tilted as I stumbled backward, my bag slipping from my shoulder, books tumbling to the sidewalk in a cascade of paper and embarrassment.
I grabbed for something, anything to steady myself, and my fingers closed around warm leather, then warmer skin.
Strong hands gripped my elbows, anchoring me as I blinked up into a stunning pair of storm grey eyes surrounded by lashes that were just unfairly long. Dark slashing eyebrows pushed together above them as he frowned down at me.
“Whoa, you okay there?” A second man peeked around his friend, and I realized that I was talking to the bikers, and the mysterious quiet one had removed his helmet.
His face was devastatingly handsome, and up-close Milo had a face that belonged in a K-Drama, all perfect skin, bright eyes, and a smile that dimpled his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless. “I wasn’t looking where—”
But my words evaporated as my gaze slid back to the quiet one.
His cheekbones could slice butter, sharp enough to draw blood, and his full lips were set in a line that wasn’t quite a frown but wasn’t anything close to a smile.
Dark hair fell across his forehead in careless waves, and a faint scar traced the edge of his jaw, a tiny imperfection that somehow made the rest of him even more perfect.
Milo was still talking. “—totally our fault for loitering right in front of the door. I’m Milo, by the way. And this silent statue is X.”
“X?” I repeated, my brain still half-scrambled by the collision and the sheer force of finally seeing their faces. “That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”
Oh god. I’d just insulted the two most beautiful men I’d ever seen.After literally crashing into one of them. Social skills: zero.
I couldn’t make eye contact, so I stared at his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched, the barest ghost of amusement. “It’s short for Xavier,” he said, and his voice was exactly what I’d imagined during my fantasies—low and rough-edged.
“Xavier,” I repeated, testing the feel of it in my mouth. It suited him, unusual and sharp.
“And you are?” he asked, one eyebrow arching slightly.
“June,” I said.
“June. Like the month.”
“Yes, like the month,” I agreed, feeling impossibly awkward. “Very observant.”
His mouth twitched again, almost a smile this time. “Parents hippies?”
“Engineers, actually,” I said, bending to gather my scattered books, desperate for something to do with my hands. “And I was born in June, so they felt it was accurate.”
“Oh shit, is it your birthday?” Milo asked, as he crouched to help me, grabbing one of my books before I could reach it. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the cover—two men and a woman in a compromising position.
I snatched it from his hands, shoving it into my bag, cheeks red-hot. “It was a few weeks ago.”
“Well, happy belated birthday.”
“So, June,” Xavier said, and the way he drew out my name made my skin prickle with awareness. “I’ve been reading those sexy books you like. You wanna act out some of those scenes?”
I froze, certain I’d misheard him.
“X, what the hell?” Milo hissed, elbowing his friend hard in the ribs. “I thought you were smooth.”
Xavier shrugged. “Isn’t that how you get girls to fuck you? You just ask them nicely.”
Milo rolled his eyes. “Of course not! I move in slow, charm them, wine and dine them. Like a normal person. I don’t just smirk at them like some asshole and ask them if they want to fuck. Jesus.”
Xavier’s lips twitched. “Maybe you should try it. You’re hot. They’ll go for it. Much less work.”
They continued this exchange as if I wasn’t standing right there, as if Xavier hadn’t just casually propositioned me.
My brain kept replaying his words—”you wanna fact out some of those scenes”—like a skipping record.
Part of me was scandalized, part of me was intrigued, and a much larger part than I cared to admit was turned on.
Milo turned back to me, his expression apologetic but with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “So, June, ignore my socially stunted friend. I have a question.” He paused, dimples flashing as he smiled, “Do you prefer dates before your threesomes, or do you want to get straight to the fucking?”
For one bizarre moment, I thought I was dreaming. Or hallucinating. Maybe I’d hit my head when I crashed into Xavier.
“THAT’S better than what I said?” Xavier punched Milo on the shoulder. “Seriously? You just said you were the charming one!”
“Straight to the fucking,” I blurted out, then immediately wanted to melt into the sidewalk as they froze and stared at me, eyes hungry.
“No shit? I like this chick,” Milo said.
Had I just implied that I knew how to threesome?
The truth was, I’d only had sex with two guys, which I was aware was well below average for a 29-year-old woman.
My fumbling first times had been with my college boyfriend, a forgettable relationship that had ended before it had really begun.
A few years ago, I’d dated a guy in my engineering department who’d spent the entire time explaining what he was doing.
Every time we had sex. I kept waiting for him to be satisfied that he didn’t have to narrate things because I knew what was coming, but it never happened.
But I wanted this. Wanted to be the woman sandwiched between two sexy guys, like on the cover of my books. Wanted to feel what it was like to be overwhelmed by pleasure, to be the center of attention in a way I’d only read about.
“Well then,” Xavier said, his voice dropping even lower, “I guess we’re getting straight to the fucking.”
Before I could process what I’d just agreed to, Milo gestured toward his motorcycle parked at the curb—a sleek black Honda with silver accents that gleamed in the evening sun.
“Let me give you a ride home,” he offered, his smile doing strange things to my insides.
“You can direct me, and X can follow. Unless you drove here?”
“I walked,” I said, adjusting my glasses nervously.
I’d read so many scenes in my books about motorcycle rides—the heroine clinging to the hero, wind in her hair, the rumble of the engine between her legs.
Pure fantasy fodder. And now it was being offered to me on a silver platter by a man who looked like he’d stepped out of those very pages.
“She doesn’t have a helmet.” The words were flat, matter-of-fact, but there was something like concern in his expression. “We don’t have a spare.”
Milo froze, his shoulders slumping as he turned back to us. “Shit. I didn’t think of that.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. “We came here looking for June and didn’t bring a helmet? Seriously, we’re the worst at this.”
My brain snagged on his words. They were here for me, specifically? Had they been waiting for me? The thought was both flattering and mildly alarming. But then I brushed it aside. They couldn’t possibly have singled me out from all the women who frequented Honeybee Books.
“I can walk,” I offered, adjusting the strap of my bag. “That was the plan, anyway. And it’s only five blocks to my house.” I pointed vaguely in the direction I needed to go, trying to ignore the disappointment settling in my chest. So much for my motorcycle fantasy.
Milo’s face lit up again, dimples flashing.
“Five blocks?” He glanced at Xavier, something unspoken passing between them, then turned back to me with a grin that was pure wickedness.
“It’s not illegal to ride without a helmet in Colorado, X is just a stickler for safety.
If you want to ride with me, I’ll ride slow and careful. Promise.”
I hesitated, common sense warring with desire. What were the chances of something happening in five blocks? But this was a complete disruption of my evening plans. But how did I explain that the walk would give me a minute to process?
“Come on, June. It’ll be fun,” Milo said. “Okay,” I said. “But go slow.”
Xavier’s expression was unreadable, but he nodded once, then held out his hand.
When I didn’t move, he said. “Give me your bag. I have a backpack. Gotta keep your books safe.”
Protecting my books. If that wasn’t a sign that these two were dreamy, what was?
Once the books were safely stowed, Xavier moved toward his motorcycle—a sleek black and green Kawasaki that looked fast even standing still. The way he swung his leg over the seat was so graceful, so effortlessly masculine that it made my mouth go dry.
“Come on,” Milo said, already astride his Honda, patting the seat behind him. “Just hold on tight. I won’t let anything happen to you. Watch the exhaust as you climb on. It gets hot.”
I approached cautiously, suddenly very aware of how awkward I was about to look climbing onto this machine in my skirt.
But Milo didn’t rush me, just waited patiently, his dark eyes warm and encouraging.
I hiked my skirt up just enough to allow me to swing my leg over, trying to subtly adjust the wrinkled fabric so I wouldn’t be sitting on a crease.
The seat was firmer than I expected, the leather warm against the backs of my thighs. I settled in behind Milo, suddenly uncertain what to do with my hands. Should I hold his shoulders? His waist? Would it be too forward to wrap my arms around him completely?
“Arms around me,” Milo instructed, as if reading my thoughts. “And scoot forward. Don’t be shy. I need you secure.”
I slid forward until I was pressed against his back, my thighs cradling his hips, my chest against his leather jacket. Hesitantly, I wrapped my arms around his waist, feeling the solid warmth of him through the leather. He was broader than he looked, his body firm and substantial under my hands.
“Tighter,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Like you mean it.”