Page 102 of Riding the Sugar High

“Nah, it’s stable. Hop on.”

“But I’m...” As I widen my eyes, he stares at me with the same blank, low-key bored expression, so I mumble, “Heavy.”

His brows knit tightly over his eyes. “Again with this? You’re one-foot-and-a-cucumber. You must weigh?—”

Gasping, I smack the side of his helmet. “Don’t you dare.”

He grimaces. “Do you think you’re heavier than the bike? Or me?”

My eyes run down his broad chest, his hips, the thick thighs straddling his bike. “No, I guess I’m not.”

“No, you’re not.”

Right. The bike’s heavy. He’s heavy. Nothing will happen; it’s fine.

But my stomach twists with anxiety, freezing me on the spot until Logan stands off his bike with a sigh and crouches down in front of me. “Arms around my neck.”

“Wh-what now?”

“Your arms. My neck.”

I shift closer to him, then tentatively lock my hands at the base of his throat. When he reaches back and grabs my thighs, pressing them to his sides, I squeal.

My feet abandon the floor, and he pulls me up, ensuring we have a good grip on each other. My chest is pressed against his back, and I’m most likely choking him, but he doesn’t seem bothered as he walks to the bike, then carefully throws his leg over and sits.

I land behind him with a gasp, my thighs still pressing the sides of his. My chest rises and drops quickly against his back, and I swear I can feel the heat of his body through both our clothes.

I’m sitting on what might potentially kill me, but Logan is in front of me, my legs hugging his, and it feels just a tad less scary.

“You good, Barbie?”

“Y-yes.”

“Cool. This is your first time, right?”

If my heart beats any faster, it’ll explode. “Yes.”

“Feet.” He twists to one side, moves my leg back until my foot comfortably fits on some other part of the bike, then does the same with the other. “Hands go here—you gotta let my neck go. It’s called Backpack, not Necktie.”

Right.

Carefully, I unlock my arms and move them to his waist. Suddenly, it makes sense why he’d call this “intimate.”

“Yep, just like that. You’ll have to hold on to the gas tank if I brake, or I’ll get off this bike as a eunuch.”

“Hm?”

“You’ll crash my balls against the tank.”

“Hands on the tank when you brake,” I say, gripping his waist. “Got it.”

“Cool. If I do this,” he says as he taps the side of my thigh, “it means I want you to hold tight. I’ll likely speed up, and my body will shift forward like...” His chest presses against the tank. “You’ll need to do the same. Go on, try it now.”

I lean forward, and when he straightens, my body follows.

“I probably won’t do it this time, but you know anyway.”

Thistime? As in, we’ll do this again?