Page 103 of Riding the Sugar High

“Is everything clear? Got any burning questions?”

“Yes. Do they make pink helmets?”

He snorts, and the bike roars to life as if vibrating with anticipation, its engine emitting a low, rhythmic hum. My hands tighten around his shirt as he turns back to me.

“Remember my promise?” he calls over the gentle roar of the engine. With a deep breath, I press my helmet against his, the cold touch offering some comfort, and nod.

He’s not going to let anything happen to me. I know it, because I feel safe around him in a way I’ve never experienced before.

“Okay, Barbie. One more rule.” I meet his gaze again, and he snaps my visor shut, then says, “Never, for any reason, let go of me.”

“Still talking about the bike?” I tease, raising my voice over the noise of the engine.

He winks, and before pulling his own visor down, asks, “What else?”

The bike moves, and with a shriek, my hands clench around his shirt. I close my eyes as the engine picks up, my heart thumping in my ears, and the world fades beyond the thick helmet.

It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. As we reach cruising speed, the wind rushes past, tousling my hair and sending a shiver down my spine. I instinctively lean into the turns, mirroring Logan’s movements, and the world blurs into streaks of colors—the landscape too fast-paced for me to keep track of.

It’s terrifying at first. Then, not so much, until I’m confident enough to detach my face from Logan’s back. I look around slowly, then a little more confidently, seeing the bike isn’t affected by it. Every bump and dip sends a jolt through my body, and I cling to him, adjusting to the rhythm of the ride until I find myself enjoying the scent of asphalt mixed with the crisp air.

I look past Logan’s shoulder, and a sense of liberation washes over me. The open road stretches out ahead, filled with unknown adventures. And the way he rides...How silly of me to think he wouldn’t be in the right mind for it. It’s like a synchronized dance between Logan and his bike, and I feel part of something powerful and dynamic.

I wish I could see his face. Or that we could talk. That I could ask him the million questions I have, or that I could comfort him, because he seemed so distraught when he got home.

I wonder what the hell happened at the police station.

Letting go of his shirt, I press a hand to his stomach. His body shifts, but it doesn’t seem like he wants me to stop, so I use both hands to rub soothing circles, enjoying his closeness.

When his hand cups mine, I pull back, thinking he wants me to stop with the cuddles. But before I can inch my hand away, he’s pressing it against his stomach tightly, his gloved fingers entangling with mine.

It’s so hot. Why is it so hot?

Because he craves my touch. Because he’s refusing to let go, as if he needs me. I’ve never been happier about a potentially deadly decision, especially when his hand moves up, dragging mine along until it’s resting on his chest, right above his heart.

I move the other hand up too, and hug him tight, legs, chest, and arms, as he lets go of my fingers. Then he’s back to gripping the handlebars, and feeling equal parts thrilled and calm, I close my eyes.

you want to ride my bike

Logan

Stage fright.I’ve never experienced it, as I’ve never been on a stage before, but I’m pretty sure this is it. Riding with Primrose behind me feels like stepping onstage to perform. My hands are clammy inside the gloves, and her delicate fingers on my chest send shivers across my whole body.

It almost makes me lose focus, but I can’t afford to, not while I’m riding and not with such precious cargo.

Regaining composure, I throw the bike into gear and drive at what I assume is an appropriate speed. I’ve never ridden this bike with someone, but Primrose is so light that she makes little difference.

“You can go faster if you want,” she says, her voice reverberating through my helmet. She sounds out of breath, but in a good, exhilarated way, and as much as I want her to have fun, I’m not sure my mind’s on the road as much as it should be.

I twist the throttle, and the bike speeds lightly as inertia pulls her backward. Her hold of my shirt tightens, the fabric bunching up in her fist.

Feeling more confident, I open the throttle completely, and her body tenses with nervous apprehension as we move through traffic. She draws closer as if she’s afraid we’ll hit the cars on either side of us, her fists pressing against me.

I could brake hard, make her bump right into me. I’ve been craving her so much it’s painful, so I’d do almost anything to feel the soft curves of her body against mine. But I don’t want her to get scared, nor do I intend to take advantage of the trust she’s put in me by riding behind me, so I come to a gentle stop at a red light.

Once the road is mostly free again, I keep a cruising speed, wanting to prolong our time on the bike, but I miss the intensity of going fast and feeling her thighs clenching mine.

It’s fucked-up.