I stood back on my heels as I enjoyed my view of Sara standing in the middle of the lot, turning slowly around and around in that blue skirt as she took everything in.

“Julian… I don’t even know how to react to this right now,” she murmured as she floated over to the Hellcat.

From the tower, we had taken the car to more cars – specifically the ones in my garage on Eleventh Avenue. The moment I’d flicked the lights on in the lot, Sara had been locked in a trance. The slow click of her heels echoed in the large space as she wandered in awe, mostly silent with her hands folded in front of her.

“You look like you’re on your first field trip to the museum.”

“Quiet. You realize this is amazing, right?”

“I do enjoy it.” I slid my hands in my pockets as I made my way toward her. “I also enjoy how you’ve paid no attention to the cars thus far. They were more of what I had in mind when I asked you to pick our ride for tonight.”

“But I want this,” Sara whispered longingly, running her hands along the hand-stitched leather seat of what was in fact my favorite bike. “Why do we have to take a car? Look how beautiful this thing is.”

“While you have impeccable taste, that’s an F131 Hellcat Combat, and it has no passenger seat, so I promise you, we’re not taking that,” I said, giving a laugh as she promptly stalked off to find a different bike to admire.

“Hm. Something tells me you ride motorcycles for the express purpose of being alone,” she observed dryly, and correctly, after passing three more with no passenger seat. “Uh-oh. Look what I found,” she lilted as she made her way to my Norton Commando. A wicked curl touched her lips as she ran her fingertips along the passenger seat. “Looks like we have a winner.”

“Sara. I’d prefer something with doors. And seat belts.”

She flashed a teasing smile as she mounted the Norton in her skirt. Christ.

“Why? You ride these things,” she pointed out.

“Yes. I do.”

“Well, if you’re not worried about your safety, then no need to worry about mine.”

“We’ve established I have difficulty with this,” I said, but I’d already lost her attention at this point. That curtain of dark hair fell over her shoulder as she tilted her head to look at something.

“Oh. Norton,” she murmured with familiarity.

“You know it?”

“Not really. It’s just my dad had a Norton belt growing up,” she said, her voice lost in memory. “It had this logo and a little British flag.”

“He had a bike?”

“Definitely not, but he was British. Still is, as far as I know.”

I smirked as I watched her lean over and wrap her fingers around the handlebars.

“Not sure why I didn’t expect your parents to be Brits.”

“They’re not. Just Dad. Mom is from a tiny, tiny, mountain village that Dad was photographing many years ago during his travels,” she said wistfully, sounding as if she were reciting the way the story was told to her growing up. I smiled as I imagined Sara’s big eyes on a mini version of herself.

“Was your dad a photographer?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she laughed. “He was an eighteen-year-old gap year backpacker when he met my poor, unsuspecting mom. She says she didn’t like him at all the first summer they met. He was loud and excitable and a little overwhelming. But despite how young he was, he said she was ‘too pretty to just forget,’ so he kept visiting her summer after summer till she started finding his quirks charming enough to move to London with him.”

“That’s some serious persistency.”

“Yeah, my dad is… whimsical, as he likes to say. He’s a lawyer who loves his colorful socks and chatting anyone’s ear off. Says ‘he’s never met a stranger.’ He’s that guy.”

“Mm. Yeah, I’m familiar with that guy.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sara giggled as she tried the foot pegs on the bike. “Meanwhile, my mom trusts no one in this world. Except him. You’ll never see her admit it, because she’s as ridiculously stoic as you are,” Sara glanced at me with a grin, “but she still finds my dad to be so very charming and ‘unbearably funny,’ as she says. It’s cute.”

“Sounds like my parents,” I smiled.

“Forever in love?”

“Yes.”

Sara let out a breath. “That’s the way to be.”

“So I hear. You’re in heels, by the way.”

“What?”

“You’re not exactly dressed to ride a motorcycle tonight.”

She blinked, as if still processing the topic change.

“Oh. I have a change of shoes in my purse.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Any girl in heels who’s carrying a big purse has flats or sneakers in it. I guarantee you.”

I eyed her. “Your pencil skirt doesn’t lend well to mounting a bike.”

“I’ve mounted you in this skirt.”

I held in a groan. “Listen, everything you’re doing on that bike right now is already going straight to my cock, so for the sake of getting to our plans on time, don’t talk about mounting me,” I said as she tipped her head forward and giggled. “Tell me why you’re hell-bent on taking the bike tonight.”

“Because you said you’re choosing where we go, so I get to choose how we get there,” Sara said simply. “And I choose this. Also, I’ve kind of been obsessed with motorcycles since high school,” she grinned dreamily.

“Also unexpected.”

“Yeah, well, I fantasized in great detail about escaping that place,” she murmured distractedly. But I saw the way she blinked when she caught herself. I cocked my head.

“Escaping what place?”

She looked at me. “Save for speedboats, motorcycles are also the coolest form of getaway in heist movies,” she said brightly, purposely ignoring my question. “So, a hundred percent, we’re taking this bike. And if you’re concerned about it being my first ride, it’s not. So, done. It’s decided.”

I had to admire her determination.

“Fine. But you’re wearing a helmet, and I’m going to teach you the proper way to mount and ride as a passenger. Most importantly, when I lean, you lean. Don’t try to balance me by going the opposite way. Even if you feel like we’re about to fall, which you will.”

Sara narrowed her eyes at me.

“Are you trying to scare me out of this?” she questioned as I laughed.

“Somewhat. Last chance to back out.”

“Never,” she whispered dramatically.

“You don’t even know where we’re going,” I smirked. She smiled as she cocked her head at me quizzically.

“What difference does that make?”