“Yep.”
“Why?” she asked simply. She really wanted to know.
“When you’re on a bike,” he said without a moment’s hesitation, “nothing matters but the wind and the view and the machine underneath you. It’s the perfect combination of freedom and power and speed . And . . .” He stopped, squinting slightly, appearing to think it over. “And a little bit of danger. Just enough to make you feel . . . alive, ya know?”
Something about the way he’d described riding made Tessa pull in her breath, and it wasn’t just the unexpected eloquence or the fact that this was by far the greatest number of words she’d ever heard him utter at one time. For most of her life, she would have had no idea what he was talking about, about a bit of danger making you feel alive. But now she did. Just since meeting Lucky.
Maybe that was the fascination he held for her. Every time she was around him, that little bit of danger hovering about him kept her on edge, kept her blood racing, her muscles tensed. So she said, softly, “Yeah. Yeah, I do know.”
He gave his head an inquisitive tilt. “You ever rode a motorcycle, hot stuff?”
She shook her head, blushing a little. “No. I just . . . know what you mean. Another way.”
Thankfully, he didn’t ask what way. But her heart nearly stopped when, instead, he said, “Wanna go for a ride with me, babe?”
It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind . . .
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Four
E verything inside Tessa went warm as her heart began to pound. At any other time in her life, she’d have turned him down. She’d never particularly had the urge to ride a motorcycle. And if forced into a discussion on the topic, she’d have likely said she thought they were kind of dangerous.
But right now, she just swallowed nervously.
Then heard herself say, “Um, yeah. Sure.”
Of course, Rachel and Amy would think she was crazy. And maybe she was. But it was only a ride, right? And not like he was going to kidnap her or anything. And just like everything else about this guy, something about the notion of riding a motorcycle with him excited her—probably more than it should.
In response, Lucky’s eyes slid down her body and all the way back up, making her tingle anew. “You’ll have to lose the skirt, though.”
Her eyebrows shot up and her cheeks went as hot as the rest of her. “Huh?”
Lucky just gave a low chuckle. “You’ll have to change into something else, hot stuff,” he clarified. “Like blue jeans. And some boots if you have them.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding, trying to act all cool about it after the fact. God, why did she behave like such a dolt around him? “I’ll, um, go do that.”
She set down the portfolio that held her sketch pad and mechanical pencil on a nearby table before turning to go. But then she stopped and looked back at him. “Um, before I do this, you don’t have . . . a girlfriend or anything in the house, do you?” She pointed in that direction. “Or a . . . Mrs. Romo?”
The way he lowered his chin told her he found the question ludicrous. “A Mrs. Romo? Not me, babe. No way.”
“I just wouldn’t want anyone to beat me up or anything,” she said before weighing it.
He arched one brow. “You figure any woman with me would be the type to beat you up?”
Maybe she should have felt bad, or embarrassed, but she simply shrugged. “Well, look at you. You’re . . .”
“What?”
Dangerous. Hot. A little scary. “A tough guy. And I’m . . .”
“What?” he asked again.
Nothing like you. And more delicate than I want to be. She settled on, “I’m kind of small.”
“Well, you got nothin’ to worry about, hot stuff,” he said with a quick wink she felt all the way to her toes.
And as for what he’d just said, she wished that were true. But at least there wasn’t a biker babe inside ready to claw her eyes out. Which meant at least one worry abated when it came to
“Why?” she asked simply. She really wanted to know.
“When you’re on a bike,” he said without a moment’s hesitation, “nothing matters but the wind and the view and the machine underneath you. It’s the perfect combination of freedom and power and speed . And . . .” He stopped, squinting slightly, appearing to think it over. “And a little bit of danger. Just enough to make you feel . . . alive, ya know?”
Something about the way he’d described riding made Tessa pull in her breath, and it wasn’t just the unexpected eloquence or the fact that this was by far the greatest number of words she’d ever heard him utter at one time. For most of her life, she would have had no idea what he was talking about, about a bit of danger making you feel alive. But now she did. Just since meeting Lucky.
Maybe that was the fascination he held for her. Every time she was around him, that little bit of danger hovering about him kept her on edge, kept her blood racing, her muscles tensed. So she said, softly, “Yeah. Yeah, I do know.”
He gave his head an inquisitive tilt. “You ever rode a motorcycle, hot stuff?”
She shook her head, blushing a little. “No. I just . . . know what you mean. Another way.”
Thankfully, he didn’t ask what way. But her heart nearly stopped when, instead, he said, “Wanna go for a ride with me, babe?”
It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind . . .
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Four
E verything inside Tessa went warm as her heart began to pound. At any other time in her life, she’d have turned him down. She’d never particularly had the urge to ride a motorcycle. And if forced into a discussion on the topic, she’d have likely said she thought they were kind of dangerous.
But right now, she just swallowed nervously.
Then heard herself say, “Um, yeah. Sure.”
Of course, Rachel and Amy would think she was crazy. And maybe she was. But it was only a ride, right? And not like he was going to kidnap her or anything. And just like everything else about this guy, something about the notion of riding a motorcycle with him excited her—probably more than it should.
In response, Lucky’s eyes slid down her body and all the way back up, making her tingle anew. “You’ll have to lose the skirt, though.”
Her eyebrows shot up and her cheeks went as hot as the rest of her. “Huh?”
Lucky just gave a low chuckle. “You’ll have to change into something else, hot stuff,” he clarified. “Like blue jeans. And some boots if you have them.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding, trying to act all cool about it after the fact. God, why did she behave like such a dolt around him? “I’ll, um, go do that.”
She set down the portfolio that held her sketch pad and mechanical pencil on a nearby table before turning to go. But then she stopped and looked back at him. “Um, before I do this, you don’t have . . . a girlfriend or anything in the house, do you?” She pointed in that direction. “Or a . . . Mrs. Romo?”
The way he lowered his chin told her he found the question ludicrous. “A Mrs. Romo? Not me, babe. No way.”
“I just wouldn’t want anyone to beat me up or anything,” she said before weighing it.
He arched one brow. “You figure any woman with me would be the type to beat you up?”
Maybe she should have felt bad, or embarrassed, but she simply shrugged. “Well, look at you. You’re . . .”
“What?”
Dangerous. Hot. A little scary. “A tough guy. And I’m . . .”
“What?” he asked again.
Nothing like you. And more delicate than I want to be. She settled on, “I’m kind of small.”
“Well, you got nothin’ to worry about, hot stuff,” he said with a quick wink she felt all the way to her toes.
And as for what he’d just said, she wished that were true. But at least there wasn’t a biker babe inside ready to claw her eyes out. Which meant at least one worry abated when it came to
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