Fix It Up (Torus Intercession 3)

Mr. Beachem snorted, and when I offered him my hand, he shook it firmly. “Do you covet my girl, son?”

“Yessir,” I assured him wholeheartedly, squatting down so I could take in the full majesty of the bike. “I certainly do.”

“And do you know what she is?”

“I do,” I breathed out, seriously awestruck. “She’s a 1999 Indian Chief Deluxe in what looks like mint condition.”

“Oh,” he said, his face breaking into a wide smile. “The man knows his bikes. Don’t drool on the paint, you hear?”

“No sir,” I said, rising after several minutes to meet his amused gaze. “Thank you for letting me see her up close.”

He nodded. “How long you been riding?”

“Twenty years,” I replied. “Got my first Kawasaki when I was fifteen. I worked all summer to get the money for it, and then I had to find parts.”

“Which one was it?” He was interested, I could tell.

“A 1975 Kawasaki H2 Mach IV,” I said proudly. “My four-gallon tank did not get me very far. I can’t tell you how many times I ended up pushing that bike.”

“But you loved it,” he said like he was sure I had.

“Of course,” I scoffed, “it was fast.”

“And what do you have now?”

“A Triumph Bonneville T120.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Mine is,” I assured him, grinning. “And the heated garage I keep her in stays warmer than my apartment.”

“That’s because you have your priorities in order.”

“Yessir.”

He glanced at Efrem. “I like him.”

“Yes,” Efrem agreed, nodding. “So do I.”

“Well then,” Mr. Beachem, said gesturing at the bike. “G’head.”

I stood there like an idiot because I seriously thought he was screwing with me.

“No? You don’t want to take her for a spin before my buyer gets here?”

“You’re selling your bike?” I was horrified.

“No,” he told me, his face breaking into a wide smile. “I fix ’em up. Occasionally, I build from scratch, other times I find a frame and build on top of that, and then there’s times, like this one, where I do a lot of paintin’ and polishin’ and findin’ genuine parts to replace the trash that was passed off as such.”

“Well, you’ve done an amazing job. I’m sure your buyer will be ecstatic.”

“Thank you kindly,” he conceded, and then shrugged. “I won’t force you to take her for a ride, but I promise you it’s pretty damn smooth.”

“I would love to,” I almost whimpered, having missed riding my own bike all summer long. “May I have a passenger?”

“Certainly, you’ve got time.”

Seeing Nick in the distance down by the chestnut trees, on his way back to the house with the film crew after their scenic walkabout, I drove to where he was and waited on the side of the road, pleased that when he saw me, he ran.

“Hey,” he said, breathless, but not from the short run. It was me, on the bike, that was causing the reaction; I could tell from how molten his gaze was.

I grinned at him from behind my aviators. “You wanna take a ride?”

He closed the remaining distance to me like he was in a daze, the color high on his cheeks, the slow dilation of his pupils and how he wet his lips all very telling.

“Yes? No?”

“Of course yes,” he husked, looking me up and down. “I should have known.”

“What’s that?”

“That on top of everything else, you ride a motorcycle.”

“Oh yeah? Bikes do it for you?”

“Uh, yeah,” he answered breathlessly. “I think they do it for everybody.”

“I have one at home.” He didn’t seem to be able to stop staring at me, so I revved the engine and then eased off, enjoying seeing him flustered. “Come on, rock star, let’s go.”

His lips parted and a sound came out, sort of a garbled, strangled gasp and he climbed on behind, arms wrapping around me tight.

Normally, at home, I didn’t ride without a helmet, and I never let anyone on the back of my bike without one. But this wasn’t the highway at ninety miles an hour or driving in the city dodging traffic, it was a quiet country road, and I wasn’t going to drive that fast. That wasn’t the point. The joy came from sharing something I loved to do with the man I was crazy about.

It was a perfect day for a ride, and I was enjoying the lull of road, the wind on my face, and the sun on my skin. More than all of that, though, I was reveling in Nick’s attention. As I guided the bike around the turns, he traced the muscles in my biceps, pressed his face into the nape of my neck, and ground his cock, that was getting harder by the second, into the small of my back.

“Hey,” I growled at him, loving how turned on he was, just being close to me. My reaction was similar. “Road rash hurts like a bitch, and I don’t want you to fall off.”