I back my bike up a few more steps, then decide it’s not fast enough, so I hop off and drop it to the grass. I back off the trail into the short woodland grass. Will follows. He unbuckles his helmet and drops it to the ground. I watch as he pulls off his bike gloves and drops them too.

My heart starts to flail like the beating of a bird’s wings against my chest.

“Gavin, he’s—” I cut off when Will reaches out and runs his fingers down my cheek.

An electric current runs through me, priming my body to receive his touch.

“Why were you working at three in the morning?” I ask, trying to distract him, or let’s be honest, myself.

“I was on a call with the Tokyo office. Then later Dubai, then London.” He’s not really paying attention to what he’s saying. Instead, his fingers trace along my jaw. I stand still, afraid to move, afraid not to. His fingers find the clasp of my helmet. He unbuckles it and slowly lifts the helmet from my head. Strands of hair fall around my face.

“You work too much,” I say.

“Yes.”

He takes my right hand and strokes the fabric of the bike glove.

“Why?” I ask.

He tugs at the fabric covering my pointer finger. It rides up, sliding to my knuckle. He wraps his fingers around my pointer and caresses my exposed skin and then firmly pulls until the tight fabric lifts off. He gently touches the tip of my finger and then moves to the next. He circles my middle finger, plays with it, then pulls the fabric up. Every tug, every touch, reverberates through me. Each time he pulls on a finger of my glove, I feel a responding tug low between my legs.

“Why do I work so hard?” he asks.

His voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it. He moves to my ring finger and slides it through his hand. I gasp. The black of his pupils grows and nearly swallows his irises.

“Mhmmm,” I say. I’m falling into a drunken lusty deliciousness where my body feels heavy and warm.

Will has removed my entire glove except for the pinky. He drags his hand over mine. I shiver at the feel of his heat covering me. He grabs the pinky and tugs. It comes off with no resistance. The glove falls to the grass.

I stare at my hand, naked and supple. Will threads his fingers through mine.

“Because that’s what I do,” he says.

Cold rushes over me. I hear the sardonic Will in his voice. He said the same thing the first time we kissed. I yank my hand from his. I stoop down and grab my glove and helmet.

“We should go.”

Will reaches out. “Wait.”