Page 40 of Fighting Fate
“You’re not my problem, Rory,” Frank calls after us. “But Willow is my concern, and if she gets hurt because of you…”
Rory doesn’t stop to listen to what Frank has to say. We leave it all behind. Wise decision or not, the second we’re outside, my hand in his and our footsteps in sync as we stalk to the motorcycle bay, I can breathe again.
Rory doesn’t release my hand as I stare at the bright red motorbike parked right in front of us.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Sure am,” he sings back, plucking my pout apart with his thumb. “Don’t worry, I’ll go slow just for you.”
“I can get a cab right behind you…”
“You ever been on a motorbike?” he asks, brows hitched so that his brown eyes look bigger. The angry man has thawed, and the Rory I’m most familiar with is back. Big smile and cocky attitude.
“No.”
“Then why’re you scared?”
“I’m not!”
“Oh yeah?” Rory unhooks a helmet from beneath the mesh on the back of the bike before he holds it out between us, making my pulse hammer as I stare at it for a second or two. “Prove it.”
Shit!When he dresses it like a challenge, I can’t not do it. It’ll be admitting defeat before playing the game. I don’t like losing.
“Pull any random shit and I’ll make you regret it. Got it, Fight Club?” I say, snatching the helmet from him and holding it to my belly.
A serious expression sobers the joviality on his face as Rory picks me up and sits me on the bike. Brushing my hair back, he cups my face with both hands. Leaning forward to nudge the tip of my nose with his, he tells me, “You’re safe with me, beautiful girl.”
“I know.”
“I’m not gonna hurt you, and I sure as fuck won’t let anyone else hurt you either.”
“I know.”
“We’re just getting started…” The words rumble over my lips, making me yearn for his with a need so desperate that I can’t catch my breath to reply. All I can do is nod as he continues. “Ain’t no way I’m letting any asshole ruin it.”
Okay. I keep nodding while he strokes his thumbs over my flushed cheeks. Sucking my lip into his mouth, he groans so deep that my insides rumble at the sound. When I remain locked in place, he thrusts his fingers into the hair at my nape, coiling them tight as his tongue licks over mine. Every relishing hum thaws my worry and all the insecurities that have been nagging in the back of my mind. The more he deepens the kiss, the harder it becomes to focus on anything but Rory. His taste. His scent. The warmth of his touch. My hands are aching to touch him, and every part of me yearns for more of him.
Unable to hold back anymore, I tunnel my fingers into his hair, allowing our bodies to hold the helmet in place between us. He has that potent scent of pine and woods that burns in my lungs even as I become breathless.
Pulling back slightly, Rory pecks my lips once more before he grins right at me with all that attitude that makes him hard to resist. “Get the helmet on.”
I do as he instructed while he puts on his own. It smells new. The synthetic scent of the materials makes me feel queasy, or maybe it’s the thought that I’m about to ride on a death trap. Regardless, I swallow down the bile and ignore the burning in my gut as Iallow him to instruct me on what goes where and how it all works.
I’ve never held on tighter to anything or anyone as I am holding on to him. Even through the nauseated nervous tension in my stomach, I enjoy the ride. London really looks different as we zip between cars and over bridges. I can feel the fast pace of the city pulse through me with the rumble of the engine beneath us. I could do this again…mostly because it means I can wrap myself around him out in the open, and no one would even know it’s us.
* * *
The smellof Mum’s roast dinner wafts in from the kitchen while Dad and I watch the Sports News channel in the lounge. Rory’s on the TV being interviewed about his upcoming fight with whom I’m gathering is the bright new talent. When they show an image of them side by side, the competition looks like a kid beside Rory.
“He looks young,” I mutter, stealing one of Dad’s crisps. If Mum finds him snacking before dinner, she might snap his hands off and throw him out of the house for the night. It’s been a long-standing rule that we don’t snack beforehand.
“Get your own!” He smacks my hand when I go for another one.
“She’ll kill me.”
“It’s the risk you have to take if you want the goods.” He winks at me.
The statement has me thinking back to the meeting a few of weeks ago. After that, Rory and I have kept a low profile. We’re sneaking around and staying out of the public eye altogether. I think he’s conscious of the fact that the one photo of us together on our date has every fucking keyboard warrior out there in full troll mode. I hate it. But more than that, I hate that it’s taking away from the limited time we have together.