Chapter 8
Tyson
M y fingers traced the metallic purple finish for the third time, checking for scratches that weren't there.
The helmet gleamed in the afternoon light, perfect and ridiculous and exactly the shade of rebellion she wore in her hair.
Four shops. Four fucking shops I'd hit before finding this one, and the price tag had made even me wince.
More than my monthly bar tab, more than I'd spent on bike gear in years.
Worth it.
The mental image of Lena wearing it, pressed against my back, arms wrapped around me—yeah. Worth every penny.
I checked my watch. Two minutes until I was supposed to knock on her door, and here I was, polishing a helmet like some teenager before prom. Pathetic.
One tiny tattooist with purple hair and a smart mouth had me checking my reflection in my bike's mirror like a nervous kid.
The black button-down was a compromise. Nicer than my usual worn t-shirts, but not so formal she'd laugh at me for trying too hard.
No club cut today—this was a date, not club business.
Just Tyson and Lena, pretending the world outside didn't exist for a few hours.
My cleanest jeans, boots polished to something approaching respectable.
Christ, when had I started caring about looking "date-worthy"?
When she'd signed that contract with a little purple heart next to her name. When she'd trusted me with her safe words, her needs, her fears. When she'd looked at me like I was something more than a broken soldier playing at being a biker.
The door burst open.
"You're early!" Lena bounced out, and my brain short-circuited completely.
A sundress. Lena in a fucking sundress, black fabric scattered with tiny skulls and flowers, the hem dancing around her thighs with each movement.
Combat boots laced up her calves, because of course she'd found a way to make feminine rebellion into an art form.
Her purple hair caught the light, loose and wild around her shoulders.
I'd seen her in torn jeans and band tees. In pajamas covered in unicorns. In nothing but my shirt while she'd tried to seduce me before our negotiations.
But this. This was something else entirely.
The dress hugged her curves before flaring out, revealing legs I wanted wrapped around my waist. The combat boots only emphasized how delicate her ankles were, how small she was compared to my bulk.
Dangerous and soft, rebellion and sweetness, everything she was distilled into one perfect image.
"You clean up nice, Soldier Boy," she grinned, spinning in a little circle that made the dress flare and my mouth go dry. "Is that a new shirt? Very dapper. Very un-tactical."
Words. I should use words. Form sentences like a functioning adult instead of staring at her like she'd punched me in the solar plexus.
"You . . ." I cleared my throat, tried again. "You look beautiful."
Pink colored her cheeks, and she bit her lip in that way that made me want to press her against the wall and—
The helmet. Focus on the helmet.
"Oh my God!" She spotted it hanging from my handlebar, darting forward with grabby hands. "Is that—Tyson, it's perfect!"
She cradled it like something precious, fingers tracing the metallic purple shimmer with reverent care.
"You actually found one that matches." Wonder in her voice, like I'd performed some impossible feat instead of just being too stubborn to quit searching.
"Course I did," I said gruffly, taking it from her hands. "Can't have you riding without proper gear."
"But this must have cost—"
"Doesn't matter." I cut her off, stepping closer. "Turn around."
She obeyed immediately, and my hands trembled slightly as I gathered her hair, lifting the soft mass away from her neck. Fuck she smelled good.
I settled the helmet carefully, adjusting the fit. "Tell me if it's too tight."
"It's perfect," she breathed, and I wasn't sure she meant just the helmet.
My fingers found the chin strap, working with practiced efficiency even as my mind catalogued every response—the way her breath hitched when my knuckles brushed her throat, the tiny shiver that ran through her, how she swayed slightly toward me like a magnet finding north.
"There." I stepped back before I did something stupid like kiss her on the sidewalk where any club member might see. "Ready for your first ride?"
Her eyes darkened, pupils dilating. "So ready."
Two minutes into our date and I was already fighting the urge to call it off, to carry her back inside and show her exactly what kind of ride I wanted to give her.
"Safety first," I managed, voice rougher than intended. "Where to put your feet, how to hold on, how to lean. It's important."
"Yes, sir," she said, and fuck if that didn't shoot straight to my cock. "I'll be a very good student. Follow all your instructions. Just like a good girl."
This woman was going to be the death of me. A beautiful, bratty, brilliant death.
"Come on," I growled, swinging my leg over the bike before I lost what little control I had left. "Before I forget we're supposed to be keeping this secret."
Her laugh was pure delight as she approached, one hand on my shoulder for balance as she climbed on behind me. The dress rode up as she settled, and I caught a glimpse of pale thigh that made me grip the handlebars tight enough to hurt.
"Like this?" She pressed against my back, arms wrapping around my waist, and every cell in my body lit up at once.
"Yeah," I managed. "Just like that."
The engine rumbled to life between my legs, but all I could feel was Lena. Every point of contact seared through my clothes—her thighs pressed against mine, her chest molded to my back, those small hands splayed across my abdomen like she was trying to feel my heartbeat through the fabric.
"Remember," I called over my shoulder, "lean with me in the turns. Don't fight the bike."
"Got it!" Her voice was bright with excitement, breath warm against my neck where the helmet didn't cover. "I trust you."
I eased out of the parking spot, hyperaware of every movement. Twenty years of riding, and suddenly I was conscious of each shift, each acceleration, because precious cargo clung to my back.
"Oh!" She gasped as we hit the street, arms tightening reflexively.
"You're okay," I assured her, placing one hand briefly over hers before returning it to the handlebar. "I've got you."
The first turn came up, a gentle curve that would tell me if she'd fight the motion or flow with it. I leaned, and miracle of miracles, she moved with me like she'd been doing this her whole life. No resistance, no panic, just fluid grace as we swept through the curve.
"You're a natural," I said at the next stop sign.
Her laugh vibrated through my back, pure joy that made my chest tight. "This is incredible! I feel so . . . free!"
Free. Yeah, that was Lena.
We hit Main Street, and I opened up the throttle just enough to make her squeal with delight.
Her hands fisted in my shirt, not from fear but excitement.
Every red light became sweet torture—her weight shifting against me, her thumbs starting these little unconscious strokes against my stomach that made thinking about anything but her impossible.
"How fast can it go?" she shouted at the third light.
"Faster than we're going to find out with you on the back," I called back, earning me a squeeze that was definitely punishment for being responsible.
"Spoilsport!"
"Safety first, remember?"
"Sir, yes sir!" She pressed closer, her thighs tightening against mine. "I'll be good. Follow all the rules. Very obedient."
Christ. She knew exactly what she was doing, the little brat. Testing my control when I couldn't do anything about it, couldn't pull over and show her what happened when she teased me like this.
"Light's green," she observed innocently, and I realized I'd been sitting there lost in the feel of her.
I accelerated harder than necessary, satisfaction flooding through me when she gasped and plastered herself against my back. Two could play this game. Every smooth gear shift, every controlled lean, I made sure she felt the power of the machine, the control I wielded over it.
By the time we reached the outskirts of town, she'd relaxed completely.
No more death grip, no tension in her thighs.
She moved with the bike like an extension of me, intuitive and trusting.
Her helmet rested against my shoulder blade, and I could feel her looking around, taking in the scenery as the buildings gave way to trees.
The road to Rosewood's wound through the foothills, all gentle curves and elevation changes that made riding pure pleasure.
Or it would have been, if Lena hadn't chosen that moment to start exploring.
Her hands, which had been locked together over my stomach, began to wander.
Just slightly. Just enough to map the terrain of my abdomen through my shirt.
"Beautiful view," she commented, and I wasn't sure if she meant the mountains or something else entirely.
"Lena." Warning in my voice that she cheerfully ignored.
"What? I'm just holding on. Safety first, right?" Her thumb found the gap between shirt buttons, nail scraping against bare skin.
I nearly drove us off the fucking road.
The bike wobbled slightly before I corrected, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. "You trying to crash us?"
"Would that be my fault?" All innocence, even as her finger traced the line of hair that disappeared into my jeans. "I'm just following instructions. Holding on tight. Being a good passenger."
"Brat," I growled, but there was no heat in it. How could there be when she was warm and pliant against me, when her joy was infectious, when every breath brought her scent despite the wind?