Chapter 5 - Chloe
I can't believe I actually asked him to take me on his bike. More surprisingly, I can't believe he said yes.
The leather jacket he gave me is way too big, smelling of cigarettes and a manly musky odor that I recognize as uniquely his. I try not to obviously inhale the scent as he leads me to his Harley.
"Ever ridden anything with two wheels?" he asks, running his hand along the bike's sleek frame.
The chrome gleams under the parking lot lights, and I understand now why bikers treat their machines like works of art.
I shake my head, watching his powerful fingers caress the metal. "Not even a bicycle since I was twelve."
He mutters something that sounds like "Christ" before swinging his leg over the bike. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his broad shoulders, and my mouth goes dry. The muscles in his arms flex as he adjusts his position, and I find myself staring at the way his jeans stretch over his thighs.
What am I doing? This man is dangerous, probably twice my age, and definitely involved in illegal activities. So why does watching him handle his motorcycle make my whole body heat up?
"Pay attention," he says gruffly. "Left foot here when you get on. Arms around my waist – tight. If I lean, you lean with me. Don't fight the bike's movement. Treat it like a dance."
I nod, suddenly nervous. Not about the bike but about being pressed against him for the entire ride to my apartment. Through the bar's windows, I can see the others watching us, and Angel's encouraging smile makes me blush harder.
"Come on, sweetheart. Don't tell me you're getting shy now." There's that dangerous edge to his voice again, the one that makes my knees weak, that is soaking my panties.
The challenge in his tone spurs me into action. I approach the bike, copying his earlier movement. It's awkward, and I'm grateful for the darkness hiding my blush as I settle behind him. The leather seat is warm from the engine, and it forces me to press against his back. I hesitantly place my hands on his sides, feeling his muscles even through his shirt.
"I said tight," he growls, reaching back to grab my wrists and pull them fully around his waist.
The movement brings my breasts flush against his back, and I have to bite back a gasp. Through his shirt, I can feel the hard planes of his abs under my fingers, the subtle ridges of what must be scars.
The engine roars to life between my legs. Oh God. This might have been a terrible idea. Or the best idea ever. I'm not sure which.
"Ready?" he asks, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. He knows exactly what this is doing to me.
"Yes," I manage to say, proud that my voice only shakes a little.
We pull out of the parking lot, and instantly I understand why people love motorcycles. The wind whips past us, the engine purrs beneath us, and the world becomes a blur of lights and sensations. The first turn has me gasping and clutching tighter to him, which earns me another rumbling laugh that I feel more than hear.
One of his hands drops to squeeze my thigh where it's pressed against his, and heat floods my body despite the cool night air.
His chest rumbles with what might be a laugh or a growl – it's hard to tell over the engine. His thumb strokes my thigh once before returning to the handlebar, and I must suppress a whimper at the loss of contact.
I give directions to my apartment in his ear when necessary, trying to ignore how intimate it feels to speak so close to his skin. Each time I do, his fingers flex on the handlebar, and I wonder if my breath on his neck affects him as much as his touch affects me.
The ride is simultaneously too long and too short. By the time we pull up to my building, I'm a mess of conflicting sensations – adrenaline from the ride, excitement from the speed, and a deep, throbbing ache between my legs from being pressed against him for so long.
He kills the engine but doesn't move to get off the bike. I should remove my arms from around his waist, but I can't seem to make myself let go. The night is quiet now without the engine's roar, making our heavy breathing seem louder.
"That what you expected, sweetheart?" His voice is lower, rougher than usual.
"Better," I breathe against his neck and feel him tense under my hands. "Much better."
The streetlight above us flickers, casting shadows that make everything feel more intimate, more dangerous. Like we're in our own little world where age differences and MC politics and journalism ethics don't matter.
I should say goodnight. Should go inside and try to process everything that's happened today. Instead, I find myself holding on tighter, not ready for this moment to end.
I feel him shift, and suddenly I'm aware of how long I've been clinging to him.
"Planning on letting go anytime soon, sweetheart?"
I snatch my hands back like I've been burned.
"Sorry, I was just... distracted."
"With what?" He turns slightly, and even in the dim light, I can see the intensity in his eyes.
"I wanted this," I admit, gesturing vaguely. "The big story, the scoop that would make my career. But now..." I wrap his jacket tighter around myself. "Now I can't help but be scared."
He swings off the bike, turning to face me fully. Despite the fear I just confessed to, I feel safer with him looming over me than I have all day.
"Nothing's going to happen to you," he says, his voice firm. "You're under my protection, remember?"
"Would you..." I hesitate, gathering my courage. "Would you mind staying a little longer? I could make us some tea?"
"Tea? You think bikers drink tea, sweetheart?"
"I don't know what bikers drink," I say, lifting my chin. "But I know what helps me calm down after an overwhelming day. And today has definitely been overwhelming."
He studies me momentarily, and I try not to fidget under his gaze. I'm not sure what possessed me to invite him up. Well, that's not entirely true – I know exactly why I want him to stay, but I'm not ready to admit that to myself yet.
"Tea," he repeats, shaking his head but looking amused. "Your neighbors might talk, seeing the president of the Iron & Blood MC at your door this late."
"Let them," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "They already think I'm crazy for being a journalist in a town this small. Might as well give them something real to gossip about."
His eyes darken at that, and for a moment, I think he might refuse. Then he reaches out, tucking a strand of wind-blown hair behind my ear.
"Lead the way, sweetheart. Let's see if you can convert a biker to tea."
I fumble with my keys, suddenly very aware of the state of my apartment.
"I should warn you, it's a bit..."
"Messy?" he finishes as I push the door open, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.
The living room is exactly as I left it this morning – newspapers everywhere, notebooks open on every surface, my laptop surrounded by coffee mugs. Most embarrassingly, there are several articles about motorcycle clubs pinned to a corkboard.
"Research," I mutter, hastily gathering papers. "I was trying to understand..."
"Us?" He picks up one of my notebooks, and I resist the urge to snatch it away. "Well, well. 'MC hierarchy and structure.' 'Common illegal activities.' 'Territory disputes.’” He looks up at me with a smirk. "Thorough, aren't you?"
"I'm a journalist. It's my job to be thorough." I grab the notebook from him, adding it to my pile. "Make yourself comfortable while I put these away and start the tea."
"Don't," he says, catching my wrist. "Leave them. I want to see how that brain of yours works."
I swallow hard, very aware of his touch. "Most of it it’s probably wrong anyway."
He settles onto my couch, looking impossibly large and dangerous in my small, cluttered living space.
"Then tell me what theories you had about us before tonight."
"While I make tea," I bargain, needing a moment to compose myself.
He nods, and I escape to my tiny kitchen, hands shaking slightly as I fill the kettle.
"I have chamomile, earl grey, or green tea," I call out.
"Surprise me," he answers, and I hear papers rustling. "Hey, sweetheart? This note here about presidents having multiple old ladies – that's not accurate."
I nearly drop the mugs. "I was just writing down what I read online!"
His laugh carries into the kitchen. "The internet isn't exactly a reliable source for MC culture."
"Then enlighten me," I say, returning with two steaming mugs.
I hand him one – earl grey, because he seems like someone who appreciates classics.
"One old lady," he says, accepting the mug with surprising grace for such large hands. "If you're going to write about us, at least get that right. We're not exactly a harem, you know?"
"And do you..." I start, then bite my lip.
"Do I what?" His eyes lock onto mine over the rim of his mug.
"Have an old lady?"
He takes a slow sip of tea, and I hold my breath waiting for his answer.
"Would I be here drinking tea with you if I did?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I'm still trying to figure out why you're here at all."
"Because you invited me," he says simply, but there's nothing simple about the way he's looking at me.
"And you always accept invitations for tea from journalists half your age?"
"Watch it with the age comments, sweetheart." But he's smiling slightly. "And no, can't say I make a habit of it."
"So why—"
"You ask a lot of questions," he cuts me off.
"Journalist, remember?"
"Oh, I remember." He sets down his mug, leaning forward. "I also remember how you felt pressed against me on that bike. That have anything to do with your curiosity about old ladies?"
My face flames. "Of course not! I'm just... trying to understand the culture."
"The culture," he repeats skeptically, that dangerous smirk still playing on his lips. "Sure, sweetheart."
I take a large gulp of tea to hide my embarrassment and then go at it again.
"Why are you really drinking tea with me, Hellfire?"
"Answer me this first – why journalism?" He leans back, making himself comfortable on my couch. "Pretty girl like you could've done anything. Why choose to stick your nose where it doesn't belong for a living?"
I can't help but smile at his description.
"I'll tell you if you tell me why you became a biker."