“All right.” He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through me. “Get on with it then.”
I tilt my head back and peer at him through my lashes. “I hear you’re trafficking drugs through my neighborhood.”
With his face angled down and inches from mine, his gaze drifts up, ticking over the surrounding homes. “Is that the rumor in the knitting circles?”
No doubt my neighbors are leaning over their walkers and squinting out their windows. But none of them have the eyesight to see the intimate cocoon of man and leather I’m indulging in.
“Never underestimate a concerned citizen with a knitting needle.” I wink.
He tips the mug back, his throat working as he drinks. The deep swallow, bouncing Adam’s apple, and taut tanned flesh over corded muscle—it’s all so captivating. Why am I spellbound by a man’s neck? I want to sniff it. Lick it. Mark it with hickeys.
Passing the coffee back to me, he stretches the zippered flaps tighter around my shoulders. There’s not enough room for both of us in this jacket, but his gloved hands span over the bare skin of my lower back, minimizing heat loss.
“Tell your concerned citizens,” he says, “they’re welcome to search my person anytime they want.”
I’ll be the only one searching his…everything. “They won’t go near you. Something to do with your habit of running over old people.”
“Why did the old lady cross the road?”
I laugh, startled at the absurdity of the question. “To get to the other side?”
“One would think. But the old lady in question crossed the street to beat me with a rolled-up newspaper as I rode by. Lucky for her, I have ninja reflexes and avoided a collision.”
Eeesh. That sounds like Virginia. She’s a shit-stirrer, which is why I don’t take her complaints seriously. But if I ever want to sleep in again, he needs to find a new route to wherever he goes at six in the morning.
“Where do you live?” I reach for the lip of the half-helmet, dying to see his hair.
“Renting a house a few blocks away on Lemona.” He nods behind him and lifts his gaze to my hovering hand. “Go ahead. Take it off.”
I remove the helmet and widen my eyes at the skin-fade hairstyle. Clipped close on the sides, it could almost be a military cut, but the thick brown strands on top are long enough to suggest his hair would be wavy if he let it grow.
“Going for the Marine look?” Juggling the helmet and the mug between us, I run a hand over the softly sheared hair above his ear.
His eyelids grow heavy, and he leans into my touch. “Something like that.”
Does that mean he’s military?
I position the helmet back on his head, straightening the straps against his chiseled jawline. “Where do you go every morning?”
“Work.” He points his chin in the direction of the city behind me. “Downtown.”
There aren’t any large military bases in St. Louis, but I ask anyway. “Armed forces?”
“Non-intelligence agency. Boring government worker.”
I have a hard time imagining that. “Desk job?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you cut through this neighborhood because it’s quicker?”
“Yup.” His eyes stay on me, penetrating in their perusal.
“If you jump over to Mackenzie, it might add like…thirty seconds to your drive. It’s a main drag, so you won’t be stirring up quiet little neighborhoods, and more importantly, I’ll be able to sleep in. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Only if you say yes.” His dimples deepen.
“Say yes to what?”
“Whatever I want.” Gruff and thick, his voice electrifies the currents pinging between us.
“That sounds dangerous.” And gloriously naughty. “How about we start with a date?”
“We can call it anything you like.” He pulls me closer in the circle on his arms, crushing the coffee mug between us.
“There’s eleven things you should know before dating me,” I say.
“Eleven?”
“No more. No less.” I’m making this shit up as I go.
He laughs with delight twinkling in his eyes. “Okay, lay them on me.”
I gather a deep breath, as if preparing to give a long-winded speech. I’m playing with him. Stalling him, if I’m honest. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, and despite the chill creeping over my exposed legs, I don’t want him to leave.
“I can’t walk past a mirror,” I say, “without checking myself out.”
“As beautiful as you are—”
“It’s not vanity.” Though the compliment has me beaming. “It’s a matter of professional growth. Dancers live, breathe, and thrive by watching their reflections.”
“Ah.” He glances at my thighs where they hook around his waist. “That explains why you’re so fucking fit.”
“Straight-up cardio, all day, every day.” I finish off the last swallow of lukewarm coffee. “Your turn.”
“I didn’t realize I was participating.”
“Tell me eleven things I need to know. Feel free to start with the most scandalous ones first.”
His smile is infectious. “I have a huge appetite. For food and other things.”
“I exercise for a living, which means I’m always hungry. For food and other things.”
He groans. “I’m ready to start that date now.”
“You haven’t heard the rest.” I cock my head. “The next thing you should know is the only movie genre that exists is Dirty Dancing.”
“That’s not a genre.”
I arch a brow.
“Okay, I get it,” he says. “There’ll be no discussions about what we watch on movie night.”
“Unless Dancing with the Stars or So You Think You Can Dance is on. Those take precedence.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “I can live with that, if you can live with my mode of transportation.”
I crane my neck to peer at the sexy lines of the Harley we’re straddling. “What if it’s snowing?”
“We stay in bed.”
Well, damn. I press my grin against his chest. I’ve been smiling so hard and so long my cheeks hurt. Who knew an unexpected moment with a stranger could be so agreeable. I want to pour this feeling into a fireproof box and keep it under my pillow.
“Give me another one,” he says.
“I have a tendency to break out in dance.” I wriggle on his lap. “Anywhere. Anytime. If there’s an opportunity for spontaneous dancing—in the supermarket, at a bar, on the toilet, you better be prepared.”
“This, I have to see.” His gloved thumb strokes the skin along my spine, making me shiver. “You should know I’m not a good dancer.”
“That’s my job. As long as you have rhythm and you’re not afraid to let loose, we’ll get along just fine.” I tilt up my chin and sink into his warm brown gaze. “I own a crapload of beauty products and clothes. My spare room overflows with dance costumes I can’t part with, stockings of every color and style, beaded bras, double-sided tape, false lashes, dance shoes… You get the idea. Dressing up is my job, so don’t expect me to give up a drawer for your sleepovers, because it ain’t happening.”