I don’t dismiss her wild fantasies. Last week, we took the wheels off a skateboard and tried to balance on a sideways trashcan. It was more fun than it f**king sounds. But this—me on a motorcycle with her facing me—it’s an image that’s too f**king intimate. I don’t even know if she realizes this.
“My head will knock into yours,” I tell her. “It’s impossible for me to reach the throttle and the brake.”
“You can wrap your arms around me to grab onto the handlebars,” she says. “I can prove that it’ll work.” She scoots up towards the gas can, giving me plenty of room on the seat. “Unless you’re scared.”
My eyes narrow. “You can call me a f**king coward all you want, sweetheart. I’m not falling for it.” And neither is my dick.
“Then I’ll just try to ride backwards without you present. How’s that?” She’s about to turn her f**king key in the ignition. I have no doubt she’ll try.
She’s done wilder things in her free time, learning how to whitewater raft and how to fly a plane. I’ve watched her fall off the back of this f**king motorcycle. I’ve seen her crash into a tree on a black diamond ski slope. And with every daring event, I’ve been there, by her side, carrying her almost every time she’s fallen.
“Fine,” I tell her easily. I near her Ducati, and she stops fiddling with the keys. I swing my leg over and straddle the f**king seat like I normally would, facing the handlebars. She’s the one who’s all turned around.
Our knees knock together, and I’m satisfied with the fact that I can’t near the handlebars. But she’s not ready to give up. She lifts her legs on top of mine and scoots down towards me. Fuck.
She’s straddling me, her back against the gas can, lying on the motorcycle. I touch the f**king throttle and brake easily, extending my arms over her, and her chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm, acting like I’m about to push into her. Like this is about to go somewhere it is definitely f**king not.
“You’re a wicked girl, Calloway,” I tell her. My c**k is pleading with me to thrust forward, and in this moment, I visualize the one thing that keeps me down. My brother beating the shit out of me. And if that doesn’t work, I imagine Lily’s whiny voice in my ear. She’s admitted to thinking about me to stop her sexual cravings, so I don’t feel f**king bad about it.
It works. I don’t move. And my face remains dark, never letting on anything past pissed—and I kind of am. This doesn’t feel f**king good. And yet, I always end up back at this place with her because I love her company so f**king much.
“You’re right. It’s kind of uncomfortable in this position,” she teases. “We don’t fit well at all.” Her lips lift in a mischievous grin again. “I know how we could fit better—”
Fuck me. “Don’t,” I say, sitting up before her head nears mine and subsequently her lips. We’ve never kissed. I don’t plan to start now. Her feet are hiked on the back of the bike, her legs still split open to allow us room.
I f**king swear if she rocks her h*ps against mine one more time, I’m going to throw her off the bike. And it won’t be nice.
She smiles even wider at the risk that’s clear in my eyes. “I was just going to suggest taking off my boots. What were you thinking?”
My tongue in your mouth. My c**k so far inside of you.
My gaze darkens, and I try to ignore her silly smile and roaming hands that grip the bike seat and then drift to her thighs. Some part of her is always moving.
I say, “Something that’s too f**king dirty for your virginal ears.”
She sits up like me, and her chest is only an inch or so from mine. I set my hand on her knee to keep her from scooting any closer.
She says in a more serious voice, “I lost my virginity when I was fifteen.”
“I meant that you haven’t popped your cherry on a motorcycle. I know you aren’t a virgin.” She asked her sister for sex advice on her sweet sixteen trip, and I was there to help Lily chaperone. I was filling in for my brother who was in rehab, and Daisy pretty much said that she already had sex. I just wish her first time wasn’t so f**king awful.
And I kind of wish she stopped at the first guy and waited for someone better. Like…no one. I don’t think anyone is good enough for her. Yeah, it’s f**king selfish. I don’t care.
I add, “I’m not surprised that you lost it that young either.”
She nods. “Because my older sister is a sex addict.” As if that f**king makes her one?
“No, because you try a lot of stuff, and I’m sure you felt like you were missing out on something.”
Her lips rise a little. “When did you lose it?”
“I was fifteen too,” I say. “I was with an eighteen-year-old girl.” My first time was on a f**king golf course at three in the morning.
Daisy digests this. “So you like older women then?”
“I like all women, sweetheart.”
She wears a crooked smile. “You like me?”
Fuck me. “Daisy—”
She holds up her hands, her palms touching my chest because there’s no f**king room. I go rigid beneath them. “I know, sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” She drops her hands quickly, her breath heavy.
I try not to look at her as anything more than she can be. But she’s gorgeous, not because she has this natural f**king beauty—no makeup and bold green eyes, smooth skin and a delicate face.
She’s beautiful because she can make the saddest person in the world grin. And she can make the loneliest guy feel something more. She’s youthful and wild. Primal and really f**king innocent. She’s all these things that scream big f**king risk.
“You know, I’ve only had sex with six guys in my entire life,” she announces.
I stiffen. “Yeah?” I don’t really want these details, even though a part of me masochistically craves them. “For some, six guys would be a lot at eighteen.”
She shrugs. “I was testing out the waters.”
“And how were those f**king waters?” I snap. I shouldn’t have asked. But I do. And I’m not going to take it back.
I wait for her to answer because I know she will.
6
DAISY CALLOWAY
I should really rethink hashing out my sexual history to my sister’s boyfriend’s older brother. (Yeah, it’s a tongue-twister.) But you know, I started so now I have to finish. I try not to half-ass things. Go full force, Daisy. No hitting the brakes. Yeah, I can do this.
I stare at his eyes that are hard and harsh, never softening for me. Our close proximity doesn’t really alleviate anything between us, but I like his closeness too much to jump off the motorcycle. And hey, he’s not moving either. Good signs, I think.
“The first guy sucked,” I tell him. “We did it once. It lasted like thirty seconds.” I should probably blush, but that time feels ancient. I just remember sitting up in his bed and being like that’s it? That’s sex? What the hell is so awesome about it?
Ryke keeps his face unreadable, just dark and brooding. Okay. I can continue without crumbling under his intense silence. Go, go, go.
I lick my lips and say, “And the second guy, we did it a couple times. He lasted maybe three minutes.”
“How old were these guys?” he asks.