Chapter 14 Sierra #2
I reach out and touch his knee before I can think better of it. His eyes snap to mine.
“Are you kidding? You’re obviously an expert. I need you there.”
“I can teach you to ride, too.”
The offer hangs in the air and something in my chest goes soft.
“I’d love that,” I say softly. “Although my parents will probably freak out if they see me on a bike.”
“Overprotective?”
“They worry about me.” I pull my hand back, but I can still feel the warmth of him on my palm. “I don’t always make the choices they think are right. Viktor being a prime example, and they don’t even know the half of it.”
“Why not tell them?”
“Because I’m protecting them from the truth.
My dad has high blood pressure. The stress would kill him.
” I take a breath. “I dropped out of college, you know. Went straight after high school like everyone expected. Majored in business because I didn’t know what I wanted, and I figured at least I’d graduate with something useful.
But I didn’t even last a year before I couldn’t do it anymore. ”
“And they were upset?”
“Yeah. Also worried. What kind of future would I have? What was my plan? I didn’t want to work at my dad’s shipping company and he was hurt.
” I shrug. “Then I started bartending, and they really didn’t understand.
It’s not that they think there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s not a career to them.
No future. But I was doing what made me happy. ”
“And you’re still happy?”
“For a while, bartending was enough. But then I figured out what I actually want.” I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “A flower shop. It’s stupid, but I’ve always loved flowers.”
“Why stupid?”
“I don’t know. It just sounds so... small.
When I say it out loud.” I watch his hands move over the bike, finding it easier to talk when he’s not looking directly at me.
“My mom had this garden when I was growing up. Nothing fancy, just a little patch in the backyard. But I loved helping her with it. Getting my hands in the dirt. Watching things grow.” I smile at the memory.
“She always said I had a gift for it. That I could make anything bloom.”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “I started doing arrangements for friends. Weddings, baby showers, whatever they needed. And I realized I love the whole thing. Picking the flowers, figuring out what goes together, making something beautiful for someone’s biggest moments.
” I pause, thinking about it. “Not just the happy ones, either. Funerals. Hospital rooms. Breakups. Flowers show up for all of it. They add a little bit of lightness no matter what someone’s going through. I like being part of that.”
He doesn’t look up from the bike. “Doesn’t sound small to me.”
I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t.
Five words, and he didn’t laugh or tell me to think bigger or ask how I planned to make money. He just believed me.
“It was freeing,” I continue. “Dropping out. Choosing my own path. I know I’ve never lived an oppressed life, but there was pressure to do things the right way.
College. Career. Successful husband. Kids.
” I laugh, but there’s an edge to it. “Nothing wrong with any of that. But I accepted those expectations without figuring out who I wanted to be first.”
“So you started. Figuring out who you are.”
“So I started.” I hold out my arm, showing him my sleeve. Flowers and vines and butterflies, winding from shoulder to wrist.
Matteo looks over at me. His gaze travels from my wrist to my shoulder, unhurried, and my skin prickles under the attention.
“I got tattoos. Volunteered. Got my nose pierced. Traveled. Got lost.” I lower my arm, suddenly self-conscious. “Amsterdam was my favorite. I went with my best friend Annika, and she ended up staying because she met the love of her life.”
“You followed your heart.”
“And it freaked my parents out a bit.” I drop my arm. “But I wasn’t going to stop. I didn’t have it all together, but I loved my life. Until Viktor.”
Matteo’s jaw tightens.
“You’re right about me following my heart,” I continue. “I never regretted it until him. Ever since he turned on me, I’ve questioned everything. My judgment. My instincts. Everything I thought I knew about reading people.”
His grip tightens on the wrench. Just for a second. Then he’s back to work, but I saw it.
“I even stopped wanting things,” I continue, my voice smaller now. “What’s the point of reaching for something if you can’t trust yourself to know what’s good for you?”
“It seems to me,” Matteo says slowly, “that maybe you’re letting yourself want things again.”
I stare at him.
He’s right. After just a few days of knowing Matteo, here I am, excited about a motorcycle. Making plans. Wanting things again.
He goes back to working on the bike, and I scoot my bucket closer. Now that we’ve talked, I feel braver. I ask questions about what he’s doing. He shows me how to check spark plugs. Explains pistons and cylinders. Compression and exhaust.
I nod along, not understanding half of it, but that’s not really the point. The point is his voice, gravelly and rough and surprisingly patient. The point is his hands, moving with careful precision. The point is the way his passion for this work makes him seem softer.
“See this?” He points to a chain wrapped around the rear sprocket. “You want to keep these well-lubricated. Friction wears them down.”
Lubricated. Friction.
Heat floods my face.
I tell myself it’s not sexual. It’s just mechanics. But my brain doesn’t care. Suddenly, all I can think about is his hands on my skin, the friction of his body against mine, the way he’d feel inside me—
I’m so tired of fighting this.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean forward and cup his face in my hands.
His eyes widen. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen. Completely still.
Then I kiss him.
It’s heat and hunger and desperation. My lips move against his, and for one terrible second, I think I’ve made a mistake. I think he’s going to push me away.
Then his arms wrap around me, and he hauls me against his chest so hard it knocks the breath out of me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth when I gasp. His hands grip my hips like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. My thighs clench. Every nerve ending in my body is lit up and aching.
I rake my fingers through his short hair and press closer. Closer. A whimper escapes me that I’d be embarrassed about if I could think straight.
“Matteo—”
He lifts me off the bucket like I weigh nothing, and for a second I think he’s going to carry me inside. Instead, he sets me down on the seat of the Harley, the leather still warm from the sun, and steps between my legs.
Of all the things I imagined doing on this bike, this wasn’t one of them. It’s so much better.
His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, more demanding. I wrap my legs around his hips and try to pull him closer, but the angle is wrong—he’s too tall, towering over me.
He solves the problem by pushing me backward and following me down.
One hand braces against the gas tank behind me while the other grips my hip, dragging me to the edge of the seat until I’m barely on it.
My back meets the handlebars and he leans over me, caging me in with his body, and suddenly everything lines up.
The hard length of him presses against my center. The friction drags a moan out of me that he swallows whole.
I need more. I need to touch him, feel him, make him as desperate as I am.
My hands slide down his pecs, over the ridges of his stomach, to the buckle of his belt. I fumble with the leather, fingers clumsy with want—
He catches my wrists.
“Not yet,” he says against my mouth.
He pins my hands above my head, pressing them back against the handlebars, and the stretch makes my back arch. The position is impossibly vulnerable—my body curved beneath his, my hips tilted up toward him, completely open and at his mercy.
The position should make me feel exposed, self-conscious. Instead I just feel wanted. Every nerve ending I have lights up and begs.
His mouth hovers over mine, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath but not close enough to kiss. He’s watching me. Waiting.
“If you don’t want—”
I wrap my legs tighter around his hips and pull him down to me, swallowing the rest of his sentence with my mouth.
He releases my wrists, and I keep them where he put them.
He makes a low sound in his throat, almost a growl, before his hand slides under my shirt.
His thumb brushes the underside of my breast and I arch into him, my shoulders pressing harder against the handlebars.
The bike shifts slightly beneath me, and the instability makes me gasp.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my collarbone.
He shoves my bra up and palms my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers, and the sensation shoots straight between my legs. I’m already wet, already aching, a liquid heat building low in my belly that makes me roll my hips toward him even though the angle barely gives me any friction.
He notices. His other hand drops to the button of my jeans and his eyes find mine.
“Please,” I breathe.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I like hearing you beg.” He pops the button and drags down the zipper, tugging my jeans down my thighs just enough to give him access.
His hand grips my hip, tilting my pelvis up, and then his other hand slides into my underwear and his fingers find me slick and swollen and ready, and the sound I make echoes through the garage.
“Fuck.” His forehead drops against mine. “You’re soaked.”
I can’t respond. I can’t do anything except roll my hips against his hand, chasing his touch. He circles my clit once, twice, and my head falls back against the handlebars with a dull clang that I barely register.
“Look at me.”
I force my eyes open. His gaze is so intense it steals what’s left of my breath. Hungry, focused, like he wants to devour me whole.
“You have any idea what you look like right now? Spread out on my bike like this?” he growls, and slides two fingers inside me.
My mouth falls open. Two thick fingers, stretching me perfectly, exactly what I needed, and it turns out my dream didn’t come close to the real thing.
He curls them forward, finding that spot like he’s done this a thousand times, and I clench around him so hard the bike rocks beneath me.
“That’s it.” His thumb circles my clit while his fingers work inside me. “Give it to me. Want to feel you come on my fingers.”
I’m already there, already climbing, the tension coiling tighter with every stroke, every press of his thumb, every filthy word he murmurs against my neck.
The leather seat is slick beneath my bare thighs.
I can smell him everywhere, motor oil and sweat and something warm and male that makes me want to bury my face in his neck and never come up for air.
My thighs shake. My fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. The bike keeps shifting with every movement, adding another layer of sensation, another reminder of where I am; spread out on his Harley like an offering, completely at his mercy.
“Matteo, I’m—I’m gonna—”
He speeds up, harder, faster, his palm grinding against my clit while his fingers hit that spot over and over, and I’m right there, right there, teetering on the edge—
A car door slams outside.
We both freeze.
His fingers are still inside me. His breath is ragged against my throat. Neither of us moves.
The pizza. Ugh.
I could scream.
Matteo looks at me. I can see him thinking about it. Ignoring the food. Going back to what we were doing. My whole body aches for him to make that choice.
Please. Please ignore it.
For a second, I think he’s going to. I think he’s going to say fuck the pizza and make me come right here on this motorcycle.
Then he exhales slowly and pulls his hand from my panties.
I whimper at the loss. He steps back, chest heaving, and I watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. His eyes never leave mine.
“That’s not fair,” I manage.
“I need to feed you,” he says, voice rough.
I slump against the handlebars, my legs too weak to close, the bike still warm and solid beneath me.
“I’m going to kill that delivery driver,” I manage.
With a wry smile, he turns and walks toward the driveway, adjusting himself as he goes.
Noble. Responsible. Infuriating.
I sit up slowly, my whole body still thrumming. I try to pull myself together. I tug my bra back into place, pull my jeans up, and smooth my hair. But my hands are shaking and my breath won’t steady, and I’m still sitting on this motorcycle so wound up I could scream.
He comes back with the pizza and nods toward the house. “We should eat inside.”
I slide off the bike on unsteady legs and follow him, frustration coiling tight in my belly.
That delivery driver has the worst timing in the history of mankind.
And from the tension in Matteo’s shoulders as he walks ahead of me, I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way.