15. Flynn
15
FLYNN
Abigail—Abi—tries to argue. Of course she does. I wasn’t expecting anything else.
For a woman who’s determined to prove how capable she is, she really doesn’t like to get out of her comfort zone. She tries to argue, but I just smile and nod and let her think she’s making a point.
If she really doesn’t want to ride the bike herself I won’t make her. It’d be a pretty hard thing to force her to do, but I hope once I’ve managed to get her out of her head, she won’t be so resistant to the idea.
I just want her to let go, to have some fun, and to trust me. I don’t know which one I want the most, but when I think about her trusting me I get this weird fuzzy feeling inside my chest.
I tell it to piss off, then help Abi fasten her helmet before pulling my own on. She eyes it with suspicion.
I swing my leg over the bike and kickstart it. A sense of calm settles over me with the familiar sound and vibration. Abi doesn’t come any closer.
“Abi,” I say, gesturing for her to come forward. She takes a tentative step.
“Why do you need the helmet?”
“Because I’m not an idiot and I’d like to keep whatever brains I already have.”
“You don’t wear one on the farm.”
“I know and I should. But the beach can be unpredictable, and I tend to be a bit looser when I’m riding out here.”
“Looser?”
“Abi.” I reach for her, my fingers encircling her wrist. “Abigail. I’m going to look after you, I promise.” I want to ask but I’m not sure if the next question is pushing too hard.
I throw caution to the wind because I have to know. I need to. “Do you trust me?”
She takes a deep breath and steps even closer. Her hand comes to rest on the face guard of my helmet, her fingertips barely brushing the skin across my cheekbone.
I hate this fucking helmet. If it wasn’t there, she’d be cupping my face with her hand. I’d feel her entire palm against my skin.
“Yes, Flynn,” she whispers. “I trust you.”
“Is your anxiety being a problem about this?” I ask, hoping it doesn’t cause her to shut down.
“Not my actual anxiety, no. I’m just generally scared about it.” She laughs nervously.
“I’ll take it slow,” I promise.
She taps her fingers against the side of my helmet, then slides onto the bike behind me. The helmets make it less intimate, but I hope she’s going to let me really get going and when we’re going that fast, it’s always safer to have something protecting your head. Plus, it’s a weirdly hot look for Abi to be wearing my spare helmet. I’m beginning to think this woman could wear or do anything and I’d find it hot.
I really need to get a grip.
Her thighs fit in behind mine and her arms snake around my torso. I give her hand a quick squeeze, then release the clutch on the bike and let it roll forward.
Abi clings on tight as we make our way down the sand. The dry, soft stuff is the hardest to get through, but once we get down below the high tide mark it’s solid footing for miles. I turn and head down the beach, pacing myself. I want Abi to enjoy this, I want her to relax. I don’t want to scare her, or push her too hard.
Her grip slowly loosens until she’s barely holding onto me. That’s when I slowly begin to increase the speed. At first she tenses when I accelerate, but when she realises I’m not taking off at warp speed, she relaxes again.
We travel down the beach, the sea salt scent in my nose, the breeze on my face, the sound of crashing waves thundering along the shore beside us.
This. This is it. Perfection.
My happy place.
The only way this could be any better was if the woman riding behind me was one I actually had a chance of falling in love with.
Well, I could probably love Abi without too much trouble. It’s her loving me back that’ll be the problem. I’m not the kind of guy a woman like Abigail Fletcher falls for.
As we race along the sand, I slowly increase the speed and Abi’s grip on me gradually decreases. Eventually she removes one hand from where it’s pressed against my stomach and holds it out beside us, hovering just past my shoulder. When nothing drastic happens, she raises it in the air.
I whoop and laugh and she echoes the noise, her joy cutting right through my chest.
I slow the bike, rolling to a stop and twist back to see her. Her eyes are sparkling, a wide smile stretched across her face. “You ready to drive now?”
Her laughter cuts off with five simple words. Rather than immediately dismissing the idea though, I can see her thinking about it. “I don’t think I can.”
“You’re wrong,” I say. “You can do anything.” I shouldn’t feel those words in my chest the way I do.
She looks doubtful, but when I gesture for her to climb off the bike she does. I stand beside her and pull my helmet off, hanging it on the handlebars, then help Abi with hers.
“Look,” I say, turning to face her. I get distracted by a lock of hair, set askew by the helmet. My fingers automatically find it and smooth it back into place. I refocus on her face and find her staring up at me with her lip caught between her teeth. God, I need to focus. “You can do this. I wouldn’t offer to let you ride my bike if I didn’t think you could. If any of the others knew I was offering they’d want me to get my head checked.”
“Yeah, because me driving that thing is a ridiculous notion.”
“No, because I usually don’t let anyone ride my bike. ”
Abi raises her eyebrow at me. “Yeah, like I’m going to believe you’re going to let me ride it if you won’t let anyone else.”
“Maybe I trust you more. You’ve met my best friends, right?”
“Have I?” Abi’s voice is quiet. Quieter than I thought this moment was.
“Yeah. Katie and Olivia.”
“They’re your best friends?”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Will you ever believe anything I say without me having to argue the point?”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I just didn’t realise.”
“It’s okay.”
The breeze picks up and whips Abi’s hair across her face. I capture it between my fingers and tuck it back behind her ear. I need to stop touching her, being close to her.
Because every time I am, I want more.
More of her.
More of my fingers on her skin.
More of her body pressed against mine.
More of her opening up to me, sharing herself with me, letting me in.
“You actually think I can do this?” Abi asks, eyeing the bike like it might bite her.
“I do, and I’ll be right there with you the entire time.”
Abi lets out a long, heavy exhale. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Against my better judgement, yes. ”
My hands fall to her shoulders and squeeze, then break free from the contact.
Apparently it doesn’t matter how much I try to avoid touching her I can’t .
I’m naturally touchy by nature, even with Olivia and Katie. It’s always been hugs and arms wrapped around shoulders and smoothing hair.
But with Olivia and Katie it’s never felt the way it does with Abi.
“Right, on you get.” I hand Abi her helmet and refasten the strap once she has it on. She swings a leg over the bike and straddles the seat. “Kick start is here,” I say, indicating the little lever tucked against the side of the motor. “It can take a bit to get the hang of it, so I’ll deal with that for now. Clutch, brake, throttle, gear shift,” I say, pointing to each part of the bike. “It’s pretty much like driving a manual car with the clutch and throttle, but it’s hand controls instead of feet.”
“That’s a fabulous analogy, except I can’t drive a manual.”
My jaw drops. “Abigail. That’s unacceptable. Driving lessons coming right up.”
“Yeah, sure. Right after I manage this,” she mutters, but the corner of her mouth is tipped up and her eyes are filled with humour.
I pull my helmet on and slide onto the bike behind her. I did not think this through, but what else is new?
“Just move this leg a bit,” I say, sliding my hand along her denim-clad thigh—fuck, these jeans are a work of art—and lifting it so it’s out of the way of the kickstart. I stamp down on it and the engine flares to life. I use my left foot to hook the bike into gear, then lean forward and place my hands over hers on the handlebar grips. I try to keep my hips back as far as possible, well away from Abi’s delicious ass. It feels like I’m about to face plant into her shoulder, but at least my dick isn’t pressed up against her.
“Now, just ease off the clutch,” I say, squeezing my left hand over hers, “and slowly twist the throttle towards you.” I squeeze my right hand.
Abi takes a deep breath, then does as instructed. As expected, the bike jolts and stalls.
“Shit,” she gasps.
“All good,” I say. “That’s pretty normal for a first go. And a tenth. It takes practise to get the feel just right.”
I drop my right hand to her thigh again, lifting her foot out of the way so I can restart the bike.
We go again, and again, and again. Each time the bike stalls, Abi gets a little more frustrated with herself.
“Hey,” I say after I restart the bike again. I’ve lost count of our attempts. My hand is still on her leg and I give her a squeeze then rub my palm over the muscle. “You’ve got this. Take a breath. There’s no rush, there’s no pressure.”
“You sure you don’t want to admit I’m a failure yet?” she mutters, then lets out a deep groan and slumps forward, her head coming to rest against the handlebars.
“You’re not a failure. At all. Come on, try again. Just a little more gas this time.”
“I’m worried if I give it more gas then it’ll take off and I won’t be able to stop then.” But she sits up again and settles her hands into position. I place mine over hers .
I hope my hands aren’t too rough. They’re not soft and delicate like hers. They’re calloused and chapped, always sporting a healing cut or scratch from where I’ve nicked myself on something, most of the time I’m not even sure what.
“More gas,” I remind her as she begins to loosen her grip on the clutch. I put a little pressure on her right hand and she twists the throttle.
The bike shoots forward and Abi squeals and twists the throttle even further towards us. It’s a natural feeling to twist the throttle when you’re riding, but unfortunately it’s also the natural thing to do when you’re panicking as well.
I manage to wrestle the control away from her and slow the bike enough for Abi to get her wits about herself again.
Then she slams on the brakes and the bike stalls. Again.
And in the chaos, I’ve slipped forward, so now I’m pressed right up against Abi’s back, from shoulders to hips. Immediately my cock starts to thicken and I shove myself back on the seat.
I clear my throat. “Almost had it,” I say, grateful she can’t see my wicked blush.
“I give up,” Abi moans. “No more.”
“Give me five more tries.”
“One.”
“Three.” I drop my hand to her leg again, the movement now completely natural, but unfortunately repetition hasn’t dulled the affect the touch has on me.
“Fine. Three.”
It only takes her two.