Chapter 29
Willow
Learning to drive ride
“I don’t think I can hold the bike up with you on it,” I said, trying again to get a grip on the seat. The sun was high in the sky. I wiped my brow and pushed my sleeves up on my arms.
“That’s okay.” Deacon shrugged and straddled the seat.
“I used to know how to ride. I assume this will come back to me fast.” His shoulders and muscled arms strained the give of his T-shirt, and I allowed myself a few moments to admire the muscles of his back, rationalizing that was within the bounds of our agreement.
He had sent me sex toy recommendations between classes, after all.
“You sure?” I looked at the bike with skepticism. I had been shocked how unsteady I felt once both my feet were off the ground. “It was really helpful when you were holding on for me.”
“I’m always sure,” he said, giving me that cocky fucking smirk that melted me a little more every time. “Watch the magic,” he said, propping one foot on the pedal and pushing off.
The bike rolled for a few feet, and then he immediately tipped to the side with a loud and kind of comical “Whoooa!” followed by a louder “Fuck!” that earned glares from a small group of parents nearby watching their toddlers run in circles.
“Sorry,” I said with a wave at their disapproving stares.
“He’s a veteran,” I called out, hoping to smooth things over or at least make them feel bad about judging.
I reached him in two steps—that big man went down hard and fast—and held out a hand to help him up.
“I think we’ve made some enemies.” I’d been gawked at a lot over the past few months, but I’d never been given that particular look of disdain by a stranger before.
I kind of liked how it didn’t really bother me.
I nodded behind me at the group who’d gone back to focusing on their children, who, to be fair, were just as loud if not as obscene as Deacon. “Are you hurt?”
He grumbled a response I couldn’t make out, but begrudgingly took my hand as he untangled himself from the bike.
“I couldn’t quite hear you. Did you say, ‘Yes, Willow, I’d love the help’?” I tried to pull him up, but he was doing most of the work there, and the pressure on my hand increased, reminding me of the night in the park, of the way his grip had tightened against me.
“Again,” he said, lifting the bike and throwing one leg over it and ignoring my taunt. “Just need to get used to it.” His jaw was set, and he put one foot on the pedal.
“Wait!” I put a hand on his back to stop him, and the tension in his muscle relaxed under my touch.
“What?”
“Your helmet.” I stood to his right and placed both hands on either side of the plastic, adjusting it.
“It got knocked to the side when you fell.” I glanced down at him as I adjusted it, realizing how close my face was to his as the furrow between his brows lessened.
He was watching me, and my face heated at the attention.
“Better?”
The intensity of his gaze on me lingered at the front of my mind. Deacon’s looks always felt unique, like no one had looked at me quite that way before. “Perfect,” I said, backing away. “Are you sure you don’t want a hand?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve gone through some of the most taxing training the US Armed Forces could dream up. I don’t need help riding a bike.” I heard a little annoyance in his voice, and I held up both hands. “But thank you,” he said, gripping the handlebars. “For fixing my helmet.”
He pushed off again, the bike wobbling and his legs looking unsteady. “Fuck,” he said, loudly, as he pulled himself up from a fall. “Shit!”
“Hey!” a petite blonde in big sunglasses called from the group of parents. “There are kids here!”
I waved in acknowledgment, but it was no use.
“Fuck!” The word boomed around the park as Deacon hit the ground hard again, the bike falling on top of him.
For the first time, I wondered if this was bad for his back and if I’d end up with a man bathing in his own wounded sense of masculinity.
I’d seen that with Cruz sometimes growing up and even with Spencer when I’d bested him at something he thought was tied to his manhood. I bit my lip and approached Deacon.
“Are you okay?” I braced for another grumble or stream of swearing, but he’d already pulled himself out from under the bike and sat with his forearms resting on his knees. His shoulders shook, and he was laughing.
“Yeah,” he said, chuckling again. “Maybe I could use your help.” He grinned up at me, and I held out a hand for him.
“You think?”
He gripped my hand again, and I soaked in the familiar heat of him as he stood, his body momentarily so close to mine.
His thumb made a slow path up the side of mine where our hands were joined, and I felt the same jolt at his touch as the last time.
“You like when I do that,” he said, stroking again.
“You always take in this kind of surprised breath.”
I swallowed and met his gaze. “I guess I do,” I said, not wanting to give away the other reaction it elicited.
“How’s my helmet?” He stroked my thumb again, still holding me close. “Can you fix it for me?”
His helmet was fine, but I still dropped his hand and reached up to touch the sides, my arms brushing the tops of his shoulders. He didn’t do anything right away, and I was second-guessing myself until his fingers grazed over my sides in a smooth stroke.
“Interesting. Same breath,” he said, doing it again. “Good to know.”
I ignored the shiver running up my spine. “Are you hoping to get out of having to try again?”
“Maybe,” he said, giving another stroke. “There are other ways to spend our time that might be more fun.”
I lowered my hands and reached for his waist, but instead of matching him, I wiggled my fingers, and he squealed and tried to push me away.
“You tickled me!”
“You’re ticklish. Also good to know,” I said, mimicking his tone. “Let’s go again. This time with my help.”
He laughed, a real, deep, rumbling laugh, and reached down to pull the bike up. “Fine,” he said. “Maybe you’re the drill sergeant.”
“MTI,” I said, enjoying his grin, the real, non-smirky one. “I’m kind of fond of the Air Force lingo now.”
He rolled his hand around the handlebar but then kicked the stand so it stood on its own. “Could I borrow your knee and elbow pads?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, beginning to unfasten them. The neon color actually looked good on him, and the Velcro strained as he strapped them around his arms and legs.
“I know you’re checking me out,” he said, still bent over his left knee.
“It wasn’t a secret,” I said, feeling bold.
Deacon’s movements paused, and I thought he’d say something rumbly and sexy and wildly inappropriate, but he just wiggled a little before standing.
“Okay.” He didn’t quite look at me, which was a little disappointing.
“Let’s go again. I thought muscle memory would kick in, but it’s like I’ve never been on a bike before.
” He grumbled under his breath, but I heard him say, “Fucking tumor.” I’d hoped for more flirty banter, but his voice was all business, in a problem-solving mode, and my earlier disappointment faded fast. “I know you can’t hold the bike while I’m on it.
Can you hold on to me?” He patted the side of his stomach, and I let my eyes dip to the flat planes of his abs.
“Then I can get the hang of the balance.”
“Sure,” I said, my voice more of a squeak than before. “Right here?” I stood behind him, awkwardly straddling the wheel, and rested my palms on his sides.
“Yeah.” He put one foot on a pedal and looked forward.
The elbow and knee pads were blindingly bright, and I smiled, appreciating how he’d asked me to borrow them—the last thing I thought he’d do.
I tightened my grip as he slowly pedaled forward, and I struggled to keep hold of him as he wobbled, but we stayed upright.
“You ready?” I yelled. It was hard to stay behind the bike, and my arms ached from holding him, but he seemed to wobble less.
“Is that angry mom still there?”
I glanced to the right. “Yeah.”
“You ready to fight with me if I say ‘fuck’ again?”
“Maybe you won’t fall this time,” I offered, breath coming fast. “Or you could just watch your language.”
“I think the odds of a fight are better.” He laughed, and I pulled my hands away from his waist, my arm muscles rejoicing but other parts of me missing the contact.
I watched him wobble again, his pedaling slow, but he stayed upright, and I called after him, “I’ll always fight with you!”
He raised a fist into the air. “I got it!”
I giggled at his over-the-top celebration and then slapped my hand over my mouth as he yelled, “Fuck!” and toppled to the ground again.