Page 32 of Coming Up Roses
I pull my helmet on and slide onto the bike behind her. I didnotthink this through, but what else is new?
“Just move this leg a bit,” I say, sliding my hand along her denim-clad thigh—fuck, these jeans are a work of art—and lifting it so it’s out of the way of the kickstart. I stamp down on it and the engine flares to life. I use my left foot tohook the bike into gear, then lean forward and place my hands over hers on the handlebar grips. I try to keep my hips back as far as possible, well away from Abi’s delicious ass. It feels like I’m about to face plant into her shoulder, but at least my dick isn’t pressed up against her.
“Now, just ease off the clutch,” I say, squeezing my left hand over hers, “and slowly twist the throttle towards you.” I squeeze my right hand.
Abi takes a deep breath, then does as instructed. As expected, the bike jolts and stalls.
“Shit,” she gasps.
“All good,” I say. “That’s pretty normal for a first go. And a tenth. It takes practise to get the feel just right.”
I drop my right hand to her thigh again, lifting her foot out of the way so I can restart the bike.
We go again, and again, and again. Each time the bike stalls, Abi gets a little more frustrated with herself.
“Hey,” I say after I restart the bike again. I’ve lost count of our attempts. My hand is still on her leg and I give her a squeeze then rub my palm over the muscle. “You’ve got this. Take a breath. There’s no rush, there’s no pressure.”
“You sure you don’t want to admit I’m a failure yet?” she mutters, then lets out a deep groan and slumps forward, her head coming to rest against the handlebars.
“You’re not a failure. At all. Come on, try again. Just a little more gas this time.”
“I’m worried if I give it more gas then it’ll take off and I won’t be able to stop then.” But she sits up again and settles her hands into position. I place mine over hers.
I hope my hands aren’t too rough. They’re not soft and delicate like hers. They’re calloused and chapped, always sporting a healing cut or scratch from where I’ve nicked myself on something, most of the time I’m not even sure what.
“More gas,” I remind her as she begins to loosen her grip on the clutch. I put a little pressure on her right hand and she twists the throttle.
The bike shoots forward and Abi squeals and twists the throttle even further towards us. It’s a natural feeling to twist the throttle when you’re riding, but unfortunately it’s also the natural thing to do when you’re panicking as well.
I manage to wrestle the control away from her and slow the bike enough for Abi to get her wits about herself again.
Then she slams on the brakes and the bike stalls. Again.
And in the chaos, I’ve slipped forward, so now I’m pressed right up against Abi’s back, from shoulders to hips. Immediately my cock starts to thicken and I shove myself back on the seat.
I clear my throat. “Almost had it,” I say, grateful she can’t see my wicked blush.
“I give up,” Abi moans. “No more.”
“Give me five more tries.”
“One.”
“Three.” I drop my hand to her leg again, the movement now completely natural, but unfortunately repetition hasn’t dulled the affect the touch has on me.
“Fine. Three.”
It only takes her two.
16
ABI
I can’t believeI actually did it.
A hysterical laugh bubbles out of me as we ride down the beach, my hands gripping the handlebars like the world will end if I loosen my grip.
We might still both die with me clinging on this tight, but I’m driving a motorbike. Riding a motorbike? What’s the correct term? I was riding it when I was behind Flynn, but now I’m in control.
