Chapter Thirty-Six
Thorne
The garage is cool and dim, raising goosebumps on my arms despite the heat outside. The scent of leather and motor oil permeates the air. My motorcycles sit next to her Bonneville. Waiting.
I’d offered to have it dropped off at her apartment, but she refused, saying she was too busy with everything to ride it. That she’d rather wait.
I’d hoped it meant she was waiting until we could go out together. And I’ve been waiting. I haven't gone riding since she left. Every mile would feel incomplete without her alongside me.
Ivy moves past me straight to her bike. There’s a fine layer of dust coating the seat and tank. Sitting for months without a rider will do that.
She swings her leg over and settles onto the seat like she's testing whether it still fits. That smile I love to kiss plays across her perfect lips. “I’ve missed her.”
“I missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” The simple words punch through my chest. She leans forward to twist the key. The metal of her keychain taps the tank as she turns it, then says, “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“Hold on.” Pulling in the clutch, she presses the ignition button. Dead silence. Not even a click.
“Shit,” she mutters. "I hit the kill switch when we pulled in last time we rode. But then forgot to turn off the key. I'm a dumbass."
"I've done it too, before I got the keyless start." I move to the workbench for cables. "Let me jump it."
She climbs off while I position my Ducati closer and hook up the cables. Five minutes later, the battery refuses every attempt.
"When did we last ride?" I ask, disconnecting the cables.
She doesn't answer immediately. Her fingers trace the edge of the dusty tank, following the curve of metal like she's remembering. "End of June."
Two months. Too long.
"Battery's shot." I coil the cables, wrapping them tighter than necessary. "That long with the key on, it won't hold a charge."
"Great." She flicks the kill switch. "So much for riding."
"I'll order you a new battery."
Her hand drops from the tank. She turns, and for a heartbeat, we look at each other, our motorcycles between us. “But what about today?”
“You can ride with me.” I hold my breath, hoping my face doesn’t give away how much I want her to say yes.
I want this. Badly. But I won’t pressure her. So, I wait, sliding my poker face into play.
Ivy smiles, and this one is small and careful. “Guess you’re stuck with me,” she finally says.
"Yeah." I grin. It stretches all the way to my heart. “I’m a lucky man.”
My pulse goes all in, every tell I've ever suppressed showing in that skipped beat. I grab our helmets to give my hands something to do that isn't pulling her closer. I retrieve her jacket hanging from a hook.
Handing over her gear, my thumb brushes over her initials embossed in gold on the back. She takes it and runs her fingers over the same spot. "You kept them.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’d thrown them in the trash.” She traces the initials on her helmet again. “Sorry. I was being a little dramatic the night of our fight. When we were supposed to go out riding.”
I take a chance and run my thumb over her cheek. She leans into my touch. My chest tightens at her trust. “I took them out, hoping you would change your mind. Even if you never wanted to ride with me again. I didn’t want you to give up something you love.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
She pulls the helmet on without a word. I do the same, grateful for the excuse to look away, to get my face under control.
I swing my leg over the Ducati. Pulling in the clutch, I hit the button and the engine roars to life beneath me, all power thrumming through the frame, through my bones. I look at Ivy. She's standing behind me, helmet on, hands loose at her sides. Hesitating.
“Ready?” I force my shoulders to remain loose, but under my riding gloves, my knuckles are white.
She moves. One leg over, settling against my back. Every point of contact burns through my leather jacket. Her weight. Her warmth. The way she fits against me, like the bike was built for us. Like she was made for me.
I need her closer, need to feel her against me, but the words stick. Finally, I manage, "Hands on me,” and it comes out low, almost a command.
Her arms come around my waist. Tentative. Barely touching. Like she's not sure she's allowed to anymore, like all these weeks of careful distance means she needs permission for this.
I pull her arms tighter, her hands flatten against my stomach. Press back into her slightly so she knows that this is exactly what I want.
Her breath ghosts across the back of my neck. Every muscle in my back responds to that small intimacy. She flexes her grip. Fingers spread wide across my ribs. Thighs press against my hips. She's holding on now, really holding on, my lungs forget their job. Fuck, I’ve missed this.
I thumb the garage door opener. Sunlight floods in, and I ease us forward, taking it slow to savor her scent and the warmth is lost to the wind and winding roads.
The engine settles into its purr as we roll down the driveway. She rests her chin on my shoulder. Her body moves with mine as I shift through the turn onto the road.
We head east, away from Louisville, into the rolling hills that I missed while living in Quebec. The sun is warm, the wind is clean, and Ivy pressed against every inch of my back is all I need.
We pass through a nowhere place—one stoplight, a gas station, a diner that's probably been there since the fifties. Her hand shifts a little lower on my stomach, not a lot, but it's enough to send heat pooling low in my gut.
Focus. Road. Not the woman wrapped around you.
But hell, it's impossible. The vibration of the bike between us. The way her thighs grip tighter when I downshift. How she tilts her head against my shoulder on the straightaways like she's content to be here, moving, together.
Forty-five minutes disappear and an overlook comes into view. It’s barely a park, more a scenic pullout with weathered benches and a view of the river valley below. I used to come here as an asshole teenager, when Kentucky felt like a cage and I needed to remember why I'd ever loved it.
I slow, pull into the gravel lot, and kill the engine.
The sudden silence is loud. There’s only the ticking of the cooling bike and the distant rush of the river.
Ivy doesn't move. Her arms stay around my waist, her body still pressed against mine, like she's not ready to let go.
Neither am I.
I flip up the visor of my helmet. “Okay if we stop?”
“Yes.” She finally loosens her grip and dismounts the bike. She pulls off her helmet and her beauty nearly takes me out at the knees. Her hair is wild from the wind, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. She looks alive. “Have you been here before?”
I swing off, removing my helmet. “Yeah, I found this spot exploring when I got my first motorcycle.”
"It's beautiful." She walks to the railing overlooking the valley. The river cuts silver through green farmland, peaceful in a way that’s postcard-perfect.
I join her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
“But this is my first time back in over a decade.”
She leans into me, and I resist putting my arms around her.
“Why?”
“I used to come here after my dad punished me for going to Hartwell. I’d take the curves too fast, racing the setting sun. Then I’d watch it set here, pretending like he hadn’t hurt me. After a while, I stopped feeling anything, and I forgot about this place.”
“What made you remember it?”
I lean my forearms on the railing. “You.”
“Me?”
“Since that night on the train, you made me feel again. The good, bad, and ugly.”
“Damn, two negatives.”
“I have a lot of bad and ugly.” I look at her. “You are the good.”
“So are you, Thorne.”
“But not enough to keep you.”
“Thorne, I never left, not really. We needed space to figure out our shit, but deep down I never stopped being yours.”
The relief is a physical thing, like someone just cut the ropes that have been strangling me for six weeks. I keep my eyes on the valley because if I look at her now, I won't be able to hide what those words mean to me.
A breeze moves through the trees below. The river keeps rushing. My heart's dancing in my chest—skipping beats, then hammering to catch up. Never stopped being mine. The words loop through my head, and I want to tattoo them into my memory, memorize the exact way she said them.
"Thorne?" There's a wobble, a brittleness that has me turning from scenery. "Have your feelings changed about me?"
My head snaps back. "No. Christ, no."
She turns to face me fully, and we're close enough that I can see how her pupils have swallowed the bourbon-brown of her eyes.
“No. Six weeks, six months, six years. No matter how much time has passed, I’ll still want you. You’re the woman for me.”
"Kiss me." The words are barely a whisper. "Please, Thorne. Kiss me."
I close the distance. My hand cups her jaw and the other slides around her waist, pulling her against me. I press my mouth to hers. She tastes like lemonade and summer and something that's uniquely Ivy.
I've been starving for this. I kiss her again, slower, savoring, but she makes that soft sound and I lose all control. I back her against the railing.
Her hands slide up to tangle in my hair, and I press closer, needing to eliminate every inch of space between us. She arches into me, and I groan against her mouth.
She is what I've been searching for without knowing it. And it’s not just wanting her, but this certainty that wherever she is, that's where I belong.
I move to her neck, teeth scraping the spot that makes her shiver. I slide a hand under her shirt. "Thorne," she gasps. “We're in public."
"Don't care." I suck hard enough to leave a mark, and her nails dig into my scalp. "Let them look."
She tugs my hair, forcing me to meet her eyes. They're dark with want, pupils blown wide. "There's an inn. About a mile back. I saw it."
My brain short-circuits. “An inn?”
Her fingers trace down my chest, and even through my shirt, her touch burns. “Unless you want to get arrested for public indecency.” She teases, but beneath it runs a tremor of desperation. “Because if you keep touching me like that, I'm not going to be responsible for what I do to you.”
I pull back enough to see her properly. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, her breathing ragged. She's never looked more beautiful.
"Are you sure?" I have to ask, even though it might kill me if she says no. “Because once I have you again, Ivy, I won't want to let you go.”
"I'm sure." She pulls me back down, kissing me hard and fast. "I've never been more sure of anything. Take me to the inn, Thorne."