“I’m sure there was someone—”
“No.” He buckles the strap under my chin, yanking harder than necessary. “I love you. I want you and only you. The idea of touching another woman makes me sick.”
Yet I did more than touch someone else. I fell terribly in love with another man.
My chest aches, but I remind myself that our situations were different. I thought he was dead.
“You’re stunning.” He steps back and looks me over. “This was one of the fantasies I jacked off to.”
I glance down the length of my body, taking in my curvy shape in skin-tight black pleather. “This?”
“Yes, this. You bring a man to his knees.” He steps into my space, hands curling around my hips and his nose sliding along mine. “Do you still have your piercing?”
“That question might be too personal for a first date.”
“Is that what this is?” His fingers press hard against my butt. “A date?”
“If you want it to be.” I blink up at him.
“So submissive.” His voice is smoke and whiskey, his breath a mint-scented drug. “Fucking love that about you.”
He releases me, leaving me swaying in the wake of his rumbling timbre, as he puts on his half-helmet and swings a leg over the bike.
“Hop on, baby.” He angles his neck to watch me over the sloping ledge of his shoulder.
I place a hand on that thick muscle and slide up behind him, squeezing my thighs around his narrow hips.
I’m not an advocate for the leather industry—it’s unnecessary and inhumane—but I don’t mind smelling that wild distinct scent on him. It brings back so many wonderful memories of my nose buried in his jacket and my arms hugging his waist as he opens the throttle and arrows us through the wind.
He slides his hands back, molding his fingers around my thighs and yanking me closer to his back. “Where are we going?”
“You need to eat.” I grip his legs, squeezing the lean muscle.
I’m worried about his weight loss. He’s still defined and hard as stone, but nowhere near as bulky as he was when I met him.
“I’d like to eat you.” He glances over his shoulder, brown eyes full of naughty intentions. “Is that on the menu?”
With a groan, I snuggle against his back and rest my helmet on his shoulder. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Loving you is easy. Everything else… Well, if it gets too hard…” He turns over the engine and raises his voice. “I’ll just love you harder.”
The cold wind whips through my hair and stings my cheeks as Cole zooms out of the neighborhood. He takes a corner, and I lean with him, plastered to his back and relishing the feel of gravity pressing the motorcycle toward the ground. There’s nothing in the world like the feeling of being wrapped up in Cole and putting my life in his very capable hands.
I’ve never been nervous or frightened riding on his bike. He’s proven his ability to maneuver through the physics of friction. And my God, he looks so damn sexy with all that raw power between his legs.
The way his strong fingers make quick twists of the throttle, the constriction of his muscles as he leans heavily into turns, and the heat of his body snug against mine on a cold day—it reminds me what it felt like to ride him.
As he shifts gears, the purr of the engine revs my excitement and fuels my senses. From the vivid green landscaping and the blinding blue sky to the architecture of old homes and the oily asphalt, the view from the bike gives me a renewed appreciation of the world around me.
It also puts me more in tune with him. I feel every twitch in his body, the tempo of his breaths, and play of his sculpted abs against my palms. I probably shouldn’t have slipped my hands beneath his jacket. But it feels so natural, so right, being with him in his element, on a bike, taking risks.
The smell of fresh bread tickles my nose as we approach Miller’s bakery. Can there be anything better? Only perhaps the scent of Cole’s skin after he’s made love to me for hours. But for now, I’m content with the bakery, and he seems to agree as he pulls into the parking lot.
We’re in a quiet area on the edge of downtown. Lots of old brick buildings and cobble sidewalks. I love this part of St. Louis, with its thriving population of family-owned businesses and diverse cultures.
He parks the bike and shuts off the engine, twisting at the waist to meet my eyes. “Sandwiches sound good?”
“Perfect. I haven’t eaten here since…”
“Since I brought you that day?”
I nod, smiling. “It was pouring down rain.”
“You were trembling and soaked and so fucking beautiful.”
I slide off the seat, ducking my head as a flush heats my cheeks.
He stores our helmets and laces his fingers through mine, leading me toward the entrance. Until something catches my attention at the far end of the parking lot.
“Wait.” I dig my boots in.
A young couple huddles around a small child, holding a cardboard sign. I can’t read the scrawled words from here, but I know the look—the defeated postures, dirty hair and clothes, overall desperation radiating from them.
I let go of Cole’s hand and jog toward them, with the sound of his footfalls trailing behind me.
When I reach the family, my heart sinks. The child—a girl around Angel’s age of four—holds a scroungy little dog against her chest. The sign in the man’s hand is the usual Will work for food, and the woman’s blank stare and deep frown suggests she’s given up on life.
“Hi there.” I hold out a hand to the woman. “I’m Danni, and this is Cole.”
Cole offers them a smile and a chin lift.
“Oh, um… I’m Holly.” She shakes my hand and tries to smile back, but it strains her face. “This is my husband, Frank, and our daughter, Aubrey.”
“That’s an adorable dog, Aubrey.” I crouch before her. “Do you like sandwiches?”
She nods, her gaze wary, skittish.
“We’re headed into the bakery.” Cole hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “You want to join us? My treat.”
They accept with enthusiastic nods, and I give Cole my biggest, most grateful grin.
Later, after our bellies are full, the little girl steps outside the bakery to untie the dog and walk along a grassy area.
I lean across the table and eye her parents. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”
Frank explains their circumstances, a story I’ve heard countless times. He and his wife lost their jobs in California. Then they lost their house and everything they own. They came to the Midwest for the lower cost-of-living and had to sell their car along the way to feed themselves and put a roof over their heads. They’ve been staying in a motel and were forced to check out this morning. They’re out of money with no hope in sight.
“There’s a homeless shelter about ten minutes from here.” I soften my tone. “I can—”
“We appreciate your help. We really do.” Holly’s chin trembles as she gazes out the window at her daughter and the tiny mutt. “But that dog is all she has left. Homeless shelters don’t take pets—”
“This one does.” I grip her hand on the table between us. “It has private rooms for families, healthy food, and fantastic programs to help you find jobs and get on your feet again. I’m actually on my way there now.”
Cole arches a brow at me, his eyes asking, This is what you’ve been up to?
“It’s called Gateway Shelter,” I say to her and nod my head at Cole. “Cole’s never seen it, and I’m taking him there to show it off, because it’s such a great place.”
“Are you sure about the dog?” Her voice scratches with disbelief. “I’ve never heard of shelters allowing pets.”
It’s true. Most don’t because of the hassle and cost. As a result, many people—women specifically—tolerate abuse just so their cats or dogs will have a home. I come across homeless families all the time, just like this one, who refuse to seek shelter because their companion animals aren’t welcome.
A while back, I put a bug in Father Rick’s ear—the manager at Gateway—about modifying the no pet rule. Unsurprisingly, during the latest round of renovations, he made changes that would accommodate dogs and cats.