I literally jump around, dancing awkwardly with excitement, and Lorenzo laughs and pats the top of my helmet. Yeah, it’s mine now. I’ve claimed it and am never giving it back. Certainly not to let anyone else ride with him. He’s mine too.
Sorry, ladies, claiming him, I think, not caring in the slightest that I’m smiling goofily and can feel my face smooshing up against the hard plastic of the helmet. I probably look like I’m squirreling away nuts in my puffed-up cheeks, but it seems like Lorenzo likes my chipmunk cheeks.
“Have you ever ridden before?” he asks seriously, though he’s smiling back at me with a dark gleam in his eye.
I shake my head and the helmet surprisingly stays put.
“Legs go around my hips, arms go around my waist. Squeeze me tight enough that I know you’re with me. Lean with me. It’s like dancing. I’m in charge and you follow. If I lean, you lean, no matter what. If you need anything, pat my stomach and I’ll check on you. Understood?”
He’s in full boss mode, telling me what to do. Usually, I’d balk at anyone doing that, but in this case, he’s the expert and I will happily take his instruction to keep us safe. I hold up my index finger. “One thing . . . just so you remember, I’m a really bad dancer, so take it easy on me. But I’ll do my best.”
He smirks that grin that tells me he did not expect me to say that after his safety lesson. “Mia rosa,” he says on a huff of laughter, “if you don’t wish to dance, then imagine it’s yoga.” His smile melts and his expression goes lustful. “No, think of it as sex. I set the pace and you flow with me, trusting that I will get you where you need to go.”
We are so not talking about motorcycle riding anymore. Or if he is, I want to get on . . . now.
“Let’s go!” I nearly shout, laughing as my own echo in the garage cheers me on. In seconds, I’m sitting astride the sleek machine as it roars beneath us. I scoot as close to Lorenzo as I can, damn close to being a spider monkey on his back like Bella on Edward in Twilight—don’t judge. Everyone watched that and imagined themselves on that particular piggyback ride through the forest.
Lorenzo looks back at me, his eyes assessing and his hair curling from his fingers running through it. He squeezes my thigh once, twice, three times before putting his hand on the handlebars.
“Another of many firsts . . . and of lasts,” I think I hear him say, but maybe it’s my imagination. Either way, it’s the truth. Tonight is the first night of many I want to spend with Lorenzo, not as co-conspirators in a scheme or as heated lovers on a vacation without rules but as something more.
I don’t have all the answers. Hell, I have more questions now than I did when Violet told me to come over because she’d done as she promised and handled things. She’d even jokingly told me that the head-ass-ectomy had been surprisingly easy, given what a mess Lorenzo was. I’d secretly been glad he was as big a disaster as me.
We ride.
For minutes or hours, I don’t know, around town in some path only he understands.
At first, I’m terrified and hang on for dear life like he’s my sole lifeline to gravity and the only thing stopping me from floating away from Earth. Eventually, I trust more, incrementally relaxing into his back to simply let the night cocoon us. I lean with him as he instructed, and as I do better, he goes faster and faster.
I could do this forever.
I feel free. I feel rooted. I feel wild. I feel chaos both raging and quieting inside me at the same time, which makes no sense but is the only way to explain what I feel. By letting him take me wherever he wants to, the wind whipping through my bones, I let go of everything and just . . . exist. It’s peaceful in a wholly unexpected and beautiful way.
We drive back into the city, lights making my eyes squint at the abrupt brightness. Until I see one that sparks a light inside my soul that I can’t ignore.
I pat Lorenzo’s stomach, and he slows instantly, looking over his shoulder quickly to check on me. I point to the yellow sign, and his dark brow lifts in surprise. But he pulls over without question.
Right up until I’m inside the yellow-signed building and sitting in the chair with a tattooed, bearded guy the size of a refrigerator leaning over me. Then the question comes.
“Are you sure about this?” Lorenzo asks. He doesn’t try to talk me out of it, though, and I appreciate that more than he’ll ever know.