All the Way (8 page)

“No kidding.” She passed a tentative glance over his bike. “I never thought I’d be able to ride again. I still don’t know if I can.”

“It’ll be great,” he assured her. “I promise.”

It was a nightmare.

Layla should have known better than to trust a promise of Blake’s.

Though the helmet imparted an illusion of safety, she would have preferred burying her face into his wide, muscular back. Unfortunately, she couldn’t tuck her head between his shoulder blades and hold on for dear life. His leather jacket felt slippery against her sweating palms.

At the bottom of an entrance ramp to the freeway, poised at a light, Layla fought the queasy feeling in her stomach. Blake revved the motor. The engine worked into a thunderous roar. When the light turned green they blasted up the ramp like a shot from a gun.

The force of their momentum threw off her balance. Their helmets smacked against each other. He tried to scoot up to give her more space. Layla followed, refusing to put any distance between them. She wanted to straighten her helmet, but she couldn’t stand the thought of letting go of him, even for a second.

If he’d gunned the motorcycle on purpose, she would tan his hide—all six feet, three inches of it. She
ignored that minor logistic, pinching him as a warning of the wrath to come.

Then she peeked through her lashes. A legion of cars and trucks surrounded them, all going sixty-five miles an hour. She shut her eyes tight.

“Breathe.
Just keep breathing.”
She sounded like Darth Vader in this helmet.
In an ominous tone, she recited, “
Luke, I am your father
.”

I’ve lost it. I’m certifiably nuts
.

Being on this motorcycle was proof. She knew it beyond a doubt when the knots inside her stomach actually began to unfurl.

Readjusting
her Heimlich hold around Blake’s middle, she felt the gut-clenching fear gradually subside. After a while of bumping along—getting used to the heavy vibration under her, the sounds, Blake’s movements as he steered the motorcycle like a fearless captain braves the seas—Layla relaxed to the point of blinking her eyes open.

The scenery along the highway skimmed past in a blur. The endless white line to her right directed their course. The repetitive rhythm of it all lulled her. Surprisingly, the cold sweat that had beaded on her forehead began to dry. They hadn’t wrecked.
Their lives were still intact. The motorcycle roared along like a beast set loose to happily roam in the great wide open. Breathing came a little easier.

After about an hour on the road, she even loosened her tight grip around Blake.
Slightly.
She waited. Nothing awful happened. Everything was…okay.

Careful not to bang
her helmet into his, she took in the scenery flying by.
Suburbs.
Woods.
Farmland. Then the view became clearer. Kids throwing a football inside a backyard fence. The graceful slope of pine branches bowing drowsily amongst the sun-drenched leaves of sugar-maple trees. The comforting sight of a big red barn squatting amidst cornrows, swaying fields of wheat, pastures spotted with grazing horses. She could’ve wandered into a Thomas Kincaid painting. Slices of Americana, glimpses into scenes she would’ve missed if she’d been in her car, absently driving along the highway.

A hypnotic peace descended on her. It felt so freeing with a few thousand pounds of metal stripped away, nothing between her and the natural beauty around her. She compared it to what it might be like in a space suit, weightless, viewing the world from a very different perspective.
It was breathtaking.

Easing her grip on Blake a little more, she tested the backrest he must have installed specifically for this trip, for her. It shocked her to admit she actually felt…almost…safe.

Like she had a long time ago in a faded memory, like an old photograph, the surface crinkled, edges torn by heartache and loss.
Kenny, will you take me riding today? If it’s sunny and dry can you pick me up from school on your Harley? Are we taking the motorcycle out to Madroo’s Farm for fresh corn this weekend?

A chill shook her. Her fingers felt cold, tingly. The wind must be chafing her hands, she decided. Her fingertips drifted across the zippered seams of Blake’s coat pockets. They were open. She tucked her hands inside. Her hands curved against the flannel interiors, her fingers curling against his sides.

The wind picked up around them as Blake accelerated.

Eyes hidden behind platinum sunglasses, Blake slid his glance to the round side-mirrors that extended from the handlebars. He viewed
Layla at his back.

A crack formed in his hard-won resistance
when her small hands curl into his pockets, against his sides. He steeled himself to ignore Layla’s intimate gesture of trust. Even though his insides were doing those cartwheels again.

Hardening his jaw and his resolve, he tore his gaze away, focusing on the endless road ahead.
He downshifted to gain momentum. The power of the vehicle under him responded to his command. Then he shot out of a traffic huddle, blazing a trail of his own.

The adrenaline surge didn’t work. Old cravings surfaced. The need to touch her, feel her skin under his fingertips. His hands tangling in her hair, his tongue tangling with hers. He wanted more than her hands molded against him. He imagined her naked body curled into the protective shelter of his, lying together after making love, so intimate, so close. Never seemed to be close enough.

A tremor ran through his hands. He had to tighten his grip on the handlebars to keep himself and the bike in control.

He needed to get this woman out of his system.

Only one way that would happen. But it would have to wait until tonight.

After three hours on the road, Blake steered into a rest stop.
They passed several picnic tables that sat beneath the shade of weeping willow trees. Guiding the bike diagonally into a parking space, he cut the engine.

Layla, in the meantime, was having issues—she had no clue what to do about her startling…
predicament
.

It began when she realized her foot had fallen asleep. When she tried to move, the tingling sensations swept up body, including the
sensitive place between her legs.
The relentless vibrations and her straddle position had become an erotic combination. She was so turned on she feared she’d collapse into orgasmic convulsions.

A gasp slipped from her as Blake extricated himself from the motorcycle. She slid forward on the seat, the seam of her jeans riding deeper into the aching place that craved
release. A surge of sensation funneled downward.

“Oh, no,” she squeaked inside her helmet. She tore it off to gulp in air. Blake mumbled something and walked away.

Not wanting to risk a mortifying public display, Layla moved toward the common building like an elderly lady who’d lost her walker. The friction of her legs as she walked, the heat rising off the pavement in shimmering waves, hour after hour of body contact with a man she’d once been insanely attracted to—and obviously still was—sent her mind spinning into dangerous fantasies. The throbbing between her thighs intensified.

A blast of air-conditioning hit her as she stepped through the rest stop doors. It cooled the beads of perspiration on her forehead, but did nothing to chill the heat gathering inside her.

She found a drinking fountain, leaned on it for support and took a long cold drink. But it didn’t help. It reminded her of the time she and Blake had arrived early for one of Robby’s track meets. He’d snuck her beneath the bleachers against her grinning protests and made out with her like they were teenagers stealing a moment alone before they got caught. Except they did get caught, by the track coach who’d leaned over the drinking fountain at the end of the bleachers.

“Sorry, coach,” Blake had said, not sounding the least bit sorry
as he rearranged Layla’s disheveled state, took her hand and pulled her back into the sunshine. Coach Dennis had thrown them a look, snorted in amusement and walked away shaking his head.

What would’ve happened if we hadn’t been caught?
she’d wondered at the time.

As she left the drinking fountain to find the bathrooms, a blush crept up her neck. She pushed into the women’s bathroom.

Last year
when Blake had taken her to a cozy restaurant in Little Italy, she’d gone to the ladies room. Only he had followed her in. Locked the door behind him.
She’d shrieked, afraid of getting caught. He’d stifled the sound with his lips. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth, melting her nerves into a flaming pool of desire.
His spontaneity dissolved her fears.

It happened every time. He was the one man who had known instinctively what would tear down her inner defenses. Knew how to pierce the armor she wore to keep him from coming too close, because the more she let him in, the more she had to lose.

But when he’d kissed her behind that locked door, the only thing she’d been interested in losing was her modesty. He’d clutched her to him, kissing her until her whole body hummed with need. Then he’d backed her against the marble wall beside the towel dispenser. His lips had covered the exposed skin of her plunging neckline as he sank to his knees in front of her. His hands slid under her dress. Layla whimpered her approval, loving the way he handled her so confidently. His palms coasted up the backs of her knees, her thighs. He dragged the dress hem up to her waist. The heat of his touch burned away all resistance. His head dipped. He tugged the crotch of her panties aside, leaned forward and…

Layla nearly groaned at the sensual memory. Then she jumped as a door in the row of metal stalls in front of her banged open. A woman wearing an Ohio State T-shirt walked out, her ponytail swishing as she turned
and gave Layla a funny look. Layla dashed into the nearest stall.

Mopping her damp forehead with the back of her hand, she blew out a long breath.
The last thing she needed was to be turned on, especially by steamy memories of Blake. Though she couldn’t help smiling when she recalled the look on the middle-aged lady’s face when Blake had unlocked and opened the restaurant bathroom door. The woman’s mouth had formed a tight O, her hand fluttering to the string of pearls around her neck. Blake had grinned, shrugged, and made up something about helping Layla with her dress. The woman had speared them with a suspicious look,
muttering, “Or helping her out of her dress.”

They had definitely shocked her uptight sensibilities. Blake had always possessed an appealing habit of doing the same thing to Layla.

Appealing?
She
frowned, shook her head to clear it. She had no business thinking about him like that.

Struggling out from the undertow of her thoughts, she shut her eyes against the image of him kneeling between her legs. Looking up at her. His eyes dark with lust and sparkling with sexual knowledge that took her breath away even as he’d hovered there, his mouth so close to her juncture.

Oh, my God. Stop it!

She blinked hard. The metal stall felt cool against her back and neck. She leaned into its support, pressed her fingers to the crotch of her jeans. A throb of awareness nearly made her moan. Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip.

No. Good grief,
no
. She couldn’t do that here. In a rest stop bathroom stall. Fantasizing about Blake Desanto.

Cheeks prickling with embarrassment, she didn’t even bother making proper use of the bathroom. She walked out of the stall and headed for the sink to splash cold water onto her
face.

She stared at herself in the streaky mirror. Noticing her flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes, Kristin’s words flashed through her mind.
Maybe you two wouldn’t be at each other’s throats if you cut through the tension and had mind-blowing sex.

How did reason and common sense stand a chance over temptation? How was she supposed to look at Blake without imagining him
down there?
His hands.
His mouth. His tongue as she begged him not to—

Oh, just stop it!

Frustrated, she rationalized that while her attraction to him was as acute then as it was now, she’d gotten over it. The man might’ve had staying power in his seductive abilities, but that didn’t translate into the rest of his life, at least not with regard to her.

Blake had proven he came and went as he pleased. The truth echoed in her heart, a hollow reminder. She patted her face dry and tossed the paper towel in the trash on her way out. She knew the only commitment in the offering was how long he lasted between the sheets.

Too bad her body didn’t think there was anything wrong with that.
And temptation told her that with Blake a session between the sheets would last however long
she
wanted it to, all night if she needed, and that it would be worth it.

As she emerged from the building into bright sunlight, she recognized the lines of Blake’s broad shoulders. He stood beside his motorcycle, hunched over what looked like a map spread across the handlebars. The smooth polish of his leather jacket reflected the sunshine. Warm light slid over the glossy strands of his hair when he moved.