Chapter 32
Tristen
Emmett’s head is in my helmet, and his arms are around my ribs, squeezing me so tight that it’s making it hard to breathe.
He’s stiff behind me, still not leaning when I do even though I’ve reminded him a few times already. It’s making it hard to turn right without overshooting, despite how slow we’re already going.
And still, my dick is punching my zipper like a fucking wild man.
The inside of my head is a battle between imagining his hands on my skin, to have him wrapped up around me without the clothes between us, and what it would be like to have him do it while I was high.
Shit.
I … I still can’t believe I asked him to kiss me. That he did. That I passed out with nothing but his face taking over behind my eye lids.
That he was still there when Hatley came in and woke me up. Just watching me. Waiting for me.
I shouldn’t get used to it.
Forcing a breath, I release one of the grips and pat his covered arm.
He jolts and I curse under my breath.
“Loosen up a lil, bubbles. You’re strangling me.”
“Oh, fuck,” he mutters low enough that I barely hear it over the engine’s whine and snaps back. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t—” I huff and shake my head. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I’m … s-s-sorry.”
A snort works its way up my throat, and I pull us off to the side of the track. Kill the engine. Look over my shoulder at him and nearly swallow my tongue.
His hair is wind swept around the open visor, framing the top of his face in a halo. The sun is beating down on us, making a light smattering of freckles pop on his nose.
He’s got a cute nose.
I smile.
“You wanna try?”
His eyes flare wide. “What?”
“C’mon. Let’s switch.”
I kick down the stand and hold up my hand to help him dismount.
His movements are jerky as he climbs down and swings around, his soft fingers pinched between mine—why am I wearing gloves again?—and his lithe body coming to a stop next to my knee.
His thigh bumps into me and I swear my heart stutters in my chest.
“What if we crash?”
“We might.” His fingers twitch.
“What if you get hurt?”
The already tight skin around the splits in my brow stiffen under his gaze.
“I’ll survive.”
There’s a flare to his nostril as he sucks in a breath, those sweet eyes of his wandering all over my face, stopping at each of the wounds marking my skin. They aren’t much. I’ve definitely had way worse, but right now they seem huge. Like he’d feel better if they weren’t there.
I’m gonna clean them up better when we get home.
“C’mon, bubbles.” I flex my fingers around him and scoot back in the cradle. “At least sit with me. Get a feel for it.”
Those honey irises meet mine and it’s like I can see the resolve build in the way they darken.
Without another word, he hikes a leg over the gas tank and settles his ass right in the crook of my thighs.
My stomach clenches.
“Do you—” my voice cracks and I clear my throat, “remember how to—”
Emmett lifts up and jams his foot down on the kick-starter with all of his weight, then lands right in my lap.
I grunt and grab his hips before he can slide off from the momentum.
He squeaks and goes to lift up again when the engine kicks once and dies.
“H-hang on, bubbles.”
There’s a rock in my throat when I slip him back into his seat, the drag of his ass over my crotch sending a chill over my exposed skin.
“Stay seated, use your leg,” I say low, almost husky. “Kick that fucker like it owes you money.”
“What?”
Snorting, I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Kick it like it’s the balls of someone you hate.”
He stiffens and I have only half a second to regret saying it that way when he hikes his leg up and smashes it down so hard on the lever that I think he might have broken it.
The engine drowns out anything that comes out of my mouth because it kicks over and stays loud, ringing in the space between us.
I swear I hear Emmett growl before he tosses a look over his shoulder that I only catch part of because of the stupid helmet before we jerk forward. He squawks and throws his hands up at the same time I get my feet beneath us and stop the machine from toppling over.
The engine stalls.
“What did I do?” He’s breathless, sounding half scared and excited. “Why’d we move like that?”
Chuckling, I reach around him and tap the grip. “Gas.” Then the other. “Shifter like a car.”
“So … um … what?”
God, he’s so fucking adorable.
Shaking my head with a smile, I go over the gas and the gears again, this time with his hands on the handlebars. I rest mine just above his, hovering in that space between touching and not and show him how to twist it.
We have to wait a minute for the flooded engine to chill the fuck out before we try again, but when we do … Emmett takes over and has us moving forward with a tentative ease.
“You can go faster if you want,” I yell over the noise. “I’m right here.”
His body trembles between my knees and I focus on the bite of the tail I have I have in a death grip instead of the way he’s slotted against me. The heat of the sun baring down its wrath, instead of how warm the insides of my thighs are.
Fuck.
Emmett takes a turn a little rough and I kick a foot out to keep us balanced as dirt kicks up behind us. He maneuvers us right, but my weight makes the front wheel jitter.
“Can you—just hold me.”
I don’t think that’s what he meant to say with the way his head shakes, but I listen anyway and lean into his back, my hands smoothing over his shoulders. He stiffens at first, then relaxes when the weight change makes it easier to drive.
“You’re heavy.”
I snort. “Thanks, bubs.”
The heat of him seeps through the hoodie.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” I say, cutting him off. “The bike’s harder to ride with a backpack.”
“Backpack,” he mutters just low enough that I almost don’t hear him.
“Or a bitch, depending on who’s talking,” I yell back. “Am I your bitch, Em?”
He goes taut against me and the handlebars shudder in his grip, making the front wheel wobble.
He twists more gas for the straight away just as another rider slips in close, making him jerk.
It tips the bars too far and I jolt forward to catch them, compensating for the overturn to keep us from tumbling over.
“Um,” he mutters thickly. “Tristen.”
I push out a breath and kick down a gear, getting us back to a reasonable speed.
Fuck that guy.
“Tristen.”
“Yeah, bubs?”
His fingers wiggle next to mine, his stiff spine flat against my chest, and my cock pushes into his lower back.
I’m hard.
So hard.
“Shit, sorry.”
Backing up in the last thing I want, though I arch my hips away from him and settle my ass back in the curve of my seat. Plant my palms back on his shoulders. Swallow back the utter want coursing through my veins.
“I-it’s okay,” he mutters finally and steers us back onto the track.
We go on like that in silence for a few laps, a heaviness hanging in the air between us that I can’t explain.
It’s dense enough that it consumes me, steals the desire to touch him from me, and when he finally pulls off to the side, I find that I’m panting.
My chest is tight. My fingers are going numb.
“Can I try?”
I rub my sternum and draw a breath.
“Try what?” It comes out airy.
Em gestures around the track and my heart pinches inside my ribs.
Fuck, he wants to ride alone.
Everything in me stiffens. Tightens. Rejects the idea of him being in control of this beast without me there to keep him from falling over.
Or worse.
“You sure?” I ask on a rasp and clear my throat.
He pauses but then nods and my heart takes a beating all over again as I plant my hands on the seat and hop off the back of the bike. He jostles with the move, his feet barely stabilizing them.
He doesn’t wait for anything before he’s gassing it, throwing himself forward only to grind back a gear when he shifts wrong.
I wiggle out my fingers as I watch him struggle, the pressure in my chest lessening with each attempt he makes that gets him just a little farther down the track.
He’s gonna flood it again.
Taking a step closer, I stop when Emmett leans back, his shoulders slumped.
“It’s okay. Just give it a sec.”
“I can’t do it,” he whispers to my chest when I reach his side and my stomach drops.
“Just need some practice, that’s all.”
There’s a glassiness to his gaze when it flicks my way then back down to his twisting hands that rest in his lap. His fists are back in his sleeves, the cuffs tucked between his fingers.
“Practice doesn’t fix stupid.”
The words are like a punch to my gut.
How the hell can he say that?
With my brow pinched, I straddle the front tire and wrap my fingers around the handlebars.
His eyes stay down.
I jerk the whole bike, and he yelps.
“Don’t ever say that again.”
There’s a look of fury barely contained by the dampness of his lashes. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
The smirk that rides up the right side of my lips draws his attention.
“There he is.” His cheeks pinken. “Let’s go grab some food, I think Blu’s working. We can come back tomorrow.”
He holds my gaze for a long, loaded beat before finally tipping his head in a nod.
“Okay.”