Eden

With Julie and Morrow back inside the bar, Donovan and I are alone. Without a word, he shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to me. I blink up at him in confusion.

“What’s this?”

“A jacket,” he deadpans.

I roll my eyes and give him a dirty look. “I know it’s a jacket. I’m asking why I’m holding it?”

“Because if you don’t put it on you’ll fucking freeze to death by the time we get back to the motel,” he answers. His tone suggests that much is obvious. In his defense he’s right—but unfortunately, I’m drunk-ish and mind blown from seeing Donovan participate in actual human interaction that wasn’t stilted. His good relationship with Margie and Ron really doesn’t explain his being openly affectionate with Julie. I’d never admit it out loud but the reality is that the green-eyed monster inside of me is a little bitter about it.

“Eden.”

Snapping out of my reverie, I look up at him and say, “Huh?”

“Gotta put it on or I’m not going to let you on the bike,” he answers.

Nodding, I quickly comply, giggling when I realize just how big it is. Holding my arms out, I show him just how much longer his arms are than mine before I shove them up so my hands are free. He shrugs and says, “Push them up, I guess,” as he gestures toward the parking lot.

“My bike is just around the corner. I park close to the building so no one taps or scrapes it.”

I nod and fall into step next to him as I push the sleeves up. The heavy leather weighs me down, but I’m not complaining at all. His sensual, sporty scent is embedded in the jacket and I’m enjoying the leftover warmth his body left inside it. As we turn the corner and I see the bike for the first time, I try but fail to hold back a snort of laughter. In the middle of taking the helmet from where it’s hanging by the strap on the front handlebar, Donovan stops, looks over, and side-eyes me.

“What’s the laugh for?”

“I’m sorry,” I laugh. “It’s just… all the black, Stretch. There’s so much of it. Your car is black, your bike is black, and your clothes are always black. Are you colorblind or just really committed to the absence of color?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he steps forward and slips the helmet over my head. “I find it’s just easier,” he mutters.

There’s something there. A hint of something in his tone that makes me think there’s something honest and also sad in that answer. Sober me would accept that as an answer. Drunk-ish me is not down with that.

“So, you’re not colorblind?”

“No, I’m not colorblind, Shortstack. I am, however, getting cold. Let’s go.”

When he gets onto the bike in one fluid motion, the overwhelming lust I feel for him—the kind I normally try to ignore— spreads through my body. Smoking hot man dressed in head to toe black on his shiny black motorcycle? Yep, it’s doing it for me. Big time. Turning his head, he looks at me expectantly. “Climb on.”

I step closer to the bike but then stop and cock my head in confusion. “You understand I’m going to need to touch you, right?”

Something that looks a lot like panic flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone in a blink, replaced by indifference. “I know it’s coming this time,” he answers as he kicks down and starts the bike.

I have so many questions about why that matters, but I am one million percent certain that asking even one of them wouldn’t result in anything positive. Nodding, I put my hand on his shoulder and sling my leg over the bike. Even before I’m fully settled in behind him, I know I’m in big trouble. I try to distract myself with thoughts of really gross things guests leave in motel rooms as I wrap my arms around his torso. He tenses all over as I settle against him and I brace myself for him to change his mind. Instead, he takes a deep breath, one I feel as his stomach moves beneath my hands. God help me, this man’s six-pack abs are like crack. I want to pull his shirt up and slide my hands beneath it so I can feel his skin without interference. The hard warmth of his body beneath my hands is almost too tempting.

He glances back over his shoulder. “You good to go?”

I bite my lip and nod, hoping I don’t sound too breathless when I answer with a simple, “Yep.”

When the bike starts moving, I automatically tighten my grip—both with my arms and thighs—around him. The vibration of the engine isn’t helping one little bit. Under my black leggings and silky plum colored thong, my clit tingles with need. I burrow into him even more when he pulls out onto the road. My whole life I’ve known people who are afraid of motorcycles. I’m just the opposite. My grandfather had me on my first quad when I was seven, I got my first dirt bike at thirteen, and I have a motorcycle license. I adore the adrenaline rush that comes from being exposed to the elements as the wind whips past my body. For all that, there’s a different kind of exhilaration and an even more potent surge of endorphins from being on a bike behind Donovan Beckett.

Once we’re out of the main part of town, he opens the bike up a little more. Our bodies move in harmony, leaning into turns as he guides the bike along the twisty back roads that lead to the motel. I can hardly believe I’m sitting behind Donovan and touching him—and that he’s letting me. The high of it is nearly indescribable—almost like I’m drunker from being this close to Donovan than from the alcohol I drank tonight.

I wish I didn’t need to wear this helmet. Safety first and all that, but I’d pay good money to bury my face against the soft cotton of his shirt. My mind wanders back to how familiar he and Julie are. What is that about? The way he treats her is about five thousand percent more affectionate than I’ve ever believed he could be. After turning it over in my head for a few minutes, I have an ah-ha moment. It has to be because he’s been living at the hotel since she was a young teen. Julie’s had seven years to work her way past his rough exterior. Also, it was probably easier for her since she was young when he moved in. It’s not like he could be a standoffish prick to a kid.

Satisfied with that explanation, I focus on the feel of Donovan’s abs beneath my hands. I’m a realist, and I know the odds are against him letting me on the back of his bike again, so I’m going to enjoy it while I can. Beneath the helmet, my smile is a mile wide, but it turns to a frown as we take the turn into Miller’s. Granted, we didn’t speak—without headsets it’s not as if we could have without yelling—but I’ve more than enjoyed this ride.

I realize something is off when he parks the bike but doesn’t move or speak. I’m a glutton for punishment, which means I release the grip I have on him very slowly. His stomach is like a granite slab beneath my hands and the tenseness has returned to his frame. Sitting up straight, I take the helmet off, lean in close again and hand it off. He takes it from me without a word. So much for our moment. Settling my hands on his shoulders, I lift up and off the bike. I wait a beat for him to get off too, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t move at all. Scowling, I shrug out of his leather jacket and hold it out. He doesn’t even look at me as he takes it. I wait a beat, then two. When he does nothing, I reach into my side body purse and pull out my room key. The man of marble doesn’t spare me a glance. Any other time, maybe, I’d let it go. Not this time, though. Even knowing that part of the reason for my attitude is down to alcohol, I’m still going for it.

Planting my right hand on my hip, I glare at Donovan’s downturned head. “Do I smell like hardboiled eggs or something?”

His head rocks back in surprise before he turns to face me. “What?”

“You’re acting like there’s something offensive about me and I am over it, jerkbag. First of all, let me point out that I never asked you for a ride. That was Julie, and if you had a problem with it, you should’ve said no.”

There’s maybe eighteen inches between us once he gets off the bike, but I stand my ground.

“It was no problem to bring you back,” he mutters.

“Bullshit. You were fine and now you’re not. Something about me obviously riles you—”

He cuts me off by resting his hand over my mouth. “Stop, because you’re making a mountain out of a fuckin’ molehill.” Removing his hand, he stares down at me with an expression of exasperation. “Don’t make it more than it is.”

“What is it, exactly?” I challenge. “Is there a particular reason you can’t be nice?”

The question earns me a raised eyebrow. “I thought I was being nice by bringing you back to the motel.”

Ugh! He’s so frustrating. “That was nice,” I agree. “It’s the after that sucks. Everything was good before you morphed back into the man of ice.”

He shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest. “In case you didn’t notice I’m not exactly a people person.”

I snort out a laugh. “Yeah, I’d noticed.”

“Point is, I’m doing what I can to be…” trailing off, he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Friendly?” I supply.

“I was thinking neighborly.”

Just when I think he can’t frustrate me any more than he already does, he says some crap like that.

“Would it be so awful to be friends with me?” I ask, affronted. “I think I’m pretty kick ass, thank you very much.”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Just that quickly, the tension has been diffused. “It wouldn’t be awful but c’mon, Shortstack. Why would you even want to be friends with someone like me?”

“Because unlike some people I won’t mention—cough, I’m talking about you, cough—I actually like people. Plus, we live right next door to each other. It just makes sense. You should at least try.”

He stares at me for a few seconds like he’s considering it. Finally, he nods. “Fine. I’ll try.”

I struggle not to look stunned that he’s amenable to anything that involves not being a dick. Damn, maybe I’m dreaming all of this. Or maybe hell is freezing over and I’m the one person who didn’t get the memo. That sounds about right, actually. Either way, I think this is as big a concession as anyone could get from him, so I’m going to put it in the win column. I half consider hugging him just to be funny, but we definitely aren’t there yet. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’d swoon against his chest, which would be embarrassing as hell.

“Glad we worked that out,” I say in my most carefree tone. “I’m going to go ward off a hangover by drinking a bottle of water, eating a peanut butter sandwich, and taking some ibuprofen before I fall into bed. Thanks for the ride home, possible friend.”

He shakes his head in a way that suggests I’ve just amused him. “Goodnight, Eden.”

I do my very best to look disaffected by the husky tone of his voice, even though inside I’m doing drunken cartwheels of joy. Turning, I head for my room. After I unlock and push it open, I look back over my shoulder and smile at him.

“Night, Donovan.”