She waited.
His eyes never moved away even as she felt his movement in the room, the air snapping around him, changing around her. Was he stepping closer? Or farther? Would she feel his breath on her skin, or feel the empty caress of the air?
She waited, her nerves stretched so taut she was afraid she would snap.
The sudden vibration of her phone on her thigh made her jump, her heart thumping against her ribs. Aware of his eyes on her, Morana picked up her phone with slightly unsteady hands and unlocked the screen, blinking at the message.
Tristan Caine: Meet me in the parking lot in 5 minutes.
Morana could’ve spoken. She could’ve talked and asked him why. But she didn’t want to break this silence, this moment where she was sitting in the dark alone being watched by him from the darker shadows.
Me: Planning to make me go somewhere, Mr. Caine?
Tristan Caine: On the contrary, I’m planning to make you come somewhere, Ms. Vitalio. 5 minutes.
Her breath caught as she read the message, the dinging of the elevator loud in the quiet of the penthouse, telling her he’d left her alone and stepped back. Knowing he was gone, Morana put a hand to her racing heart, feeling its hard thump under her fingers, her breasts heavy and heaving as she inhaled and exhaled, regularizing her breaths.
Was she really going to do this again? Let him do this again? That time in the restaurant had been to get them out of their systems. It had failed spectacularly. Would this time get him out? And just in case it didn’t, would she let him fuck her again? At what cost? She wasn’t foolish enough to delude herself into thinking it won’t deepen whatever connection they already had. Could she risk it? Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe they’d get themselves out of their systems, and Morana would develop the counter codes and leave everything peacefully with closure.
Another incoming text interrupted her thoughts.
Tristan Caine: If you’re scared…
He was baiting her. Why?
Me: Of what?
Tristan Caine: Come and see for yourself.
What, was he parading around naked in the lot with whipped cream smeared over his man parts?
Me: You use ‘come’ a lot, you know that?
Tristan Caine: Women are usually grateful in all sorts of ways.
Morana scoffed, trying not to let the image of him tangled with some gorgeous woman, multiple women, get to her. It didn’t bother her. Not. At. All.
Standing up and straightening her clothes, she slipped her feet into her flats and headed for the elevator, typing all the while.
Me: You actually let them speak during sex? Outside of a restroom? How classy.
The elevator doors slid open and she got inside, looking back at herself in the mirror, at her tousled hair and the tank top that tended to slip her shoulders. The jeans Amara had loaned her was slightly loose on her, the hem folded back to accommodate her shorter height. She looked like a little hipster who’d burst into a song and dance at the drop of a hat, like in a music video.
Scoffing, she pushed her phone inside her pocket, straightening the strap of her top, and walked out when the doors opened. Dante and Tristan Caine stood together, talking in quiet tones beside his bike. It was her first proper glimpse of him since the afternoon, and she was surprised to find him wearing not the suit he’d been wearing during the day, but well-worn jeans that hugged his ass in ways she could envy, and that black leather jacket of his. She was surprised because it meant he’d been in the apartment longer than she’d realized. It meant he’d let her sleep without disturbing her, and she didn’t know what to make of that.
Dante looked at her, gave her a small nod and headed to his car, dialing someone on his phone.
And then, Tristan Caine took one handle of that beast of a bike, swung one leg over it, the muscles of his thighs flexing under that jeans in a way that made her insides roar with feminine appreciation. He settled his ass back on the seat, picking up a helmet from behind him and finally looking at her with those piercing blue eyes. It was only then that she noticed a second helmet on the seat. A smaller, more feminine helmet.
Fuck.
He was taking her out on his bike? His bike? The sacred, holy bike? The bike he actually enjoyed riding?
“If you’re done gaping, Ms. Vitalio, we’re on a clock,” his rough, low voice rasped over her, breaking her out of her stupor, his eyes locked on her.
Morana gulped and walked forward, apprehension curling in her stomach along with excitement, eyeing the beautiful black and red chrome monster, the seat higher than her waist. How in the world was she going to climb onto it?
She picked up the smaller helmet, aware of his gaze on her. It wasn’t new and it was clearly feminine. Who did it belong to? Or was it like the common helmet for any and all females climbing the back? For some reason, the idea did not sit well with her.
“Who’s is this?” she blurted out before she could stop herself, berating herself the moment the words left her lips.
Tristan Caine raised an eyebrow at her but stayed silent, and suddenly, a horrible, horrible thought occurred to her. Was there someone he was supposed to be with back in…? She shook the thought off even before it could complete. No. What little she knew of him, from what she’d seen and heard, Tristan Caine did not mistreat women. She was the only exception and even with his hatred, he’d given her sanctuary when she’d needed it to lick her wounds and heal.
Had there been someone else, he wouldn’t have pursued her as sexually as he had.
Morana was certain of that.
This was exactly why she took a deep breath and put on the helmet, looking up at him, to find him staring back at her with an inscrutable look.
“You might want to remove those glasses,” he commented, his lips in a completely straight line.
Pulling them off wordlessly, she floundered for a second, wondering where to put it to keep it safe, before tucking one ear-handle into her cleavage, letting the glasses hang off her tank top. She looked up to find those blue, blue eyes watching her exposed skin unabashedly, before leisurely stroking over her neck, her mouth, and halting at her eyes.
They stayed that way for a moment before he turned back to face the front, his lithe, graceful body moving as he kicked the bike off the stand. He started it with a powerful thrust, waiting.
Morana felt an odd kind of excitement filling her.
She’d never been on a bike. Only ever in her car and her father’s.
Her first time on the back of a bike, with Tristan Caine.
Morana took in a deep breath, putting her feet on the stand and her hands on those broad, muscular shoulders for support, swinging her leg over. She settled onto the seat, her legs spread wide and held that way by his hips in between them. The beast of a bike rumbled underneath her, sending vibrations up and down her spine, vibrations into her core, making her bite back on a gasp.
“You’ll need to hold more than my shoulder if you don’t want to fall,” his voice rumbled over the noise of the engine.
She didn’t want to.
But she did too.
Morana hesitated, but slowly placed her hands on the sides of his jacket, feeling nothing but tight, packed muscles beneath the leather, her fingers flexing against the warmth of his flesh.