I throw a leg over, the way he showed me, settle my feet in the footrests, according to his instructions, grab him tight with my thighs, and wrap my arms around his waist.

Which, oh, my God is so hard. Brody Wilder is all muscle. How does my body know that the feel of his abs under my hands is a signal to start melting?

I hope I don’t lose all control and start groping him midway through the ride.

And then we’re upright and he kicks the bike into motion and holy wowser.

I wasn’t expecting it to be so noisy or so—

Buzzy between my thighs.

And even with the helmet on and no way for the wind to slip fingers through my hair, the speed and the rushing of air is a total thrill.

Not to mention the man between my thighs and in my arms.

My whole body burns at the contact.

He takes us on a long, slow cruise around Rush Creek. I notice, though, that he avoids the area near Connor’s apartment and town itself.

It’s impossible to ignore the roar of the engine or the vibrations that surge through the powerful machine. But it’s also impossible for me to ignore what those vibrations, in combination with Brody’s hard body, do to me.

I’m vibrating, too, by the time he takes the bike down a long, dirt road that emerges into a grassy meadow.

“Brody,” I say, when it’s quiet enough for me to be heard. My arms are still around his waist. “Nobody told me a motorcycle was a sex toy.”

His chuckle is burnt vanilla, rough like his stubble on my thighs that day at the lake.

I am all heat and liquid and craving.

He half turns, carefully avoiding the hot pipe, and lifts me onto his lap. He removes my helmet, and his, and leans down to drop them into the grass. Then he kisses me. No preliminaries, just hot, open mouth and searching tongue, leaving tingles everywhere it sweeps. When he pulls away, I’m panting.

“You all revved up?” he murmurs.

“God. Yes.”

“Hold on tight.”

I lock my arms around his neck, and in a feat of athleticism that takes my breath away, he stands, swings his leg off the bike, and—without putting me down—works open the strap of his motorcycle satchel to remove a blanket. He sets me down to lay it out, then swoops me up again. A moment later, we’re on the ground, his body covering mine.

Brody Wilder is better than my teenaged fantasies, which is—

Well, off the charts.