Page 11 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

On a straight stretch, he grabbed my hand in one of his and tugged it lower, sliding it beneath the hem of his jacket. I slid my other hand under it, feeling him shiver.

“Is that because you like me touching your abs or because my hands are cold?” I asked, though I was pretty sure he couldn’t hear me.

When he didn’t answer, I giggled and took the opportunity to tease him about whether or not he’d want these cold hands on his dick.

It was kind of fun, taunting him when he was right there next to me but couldn’t hear what I was saying.

Between the helmets, the wind, and the engine noise, there was no way my voice carried to him.

And it was super fun, touching him. My palms flattened, sneaking under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, feeling the ridged muscles of his abdomen beneath. Heat bloomed where we connected, his skin burning through the fabric. I gasped, the sound lost in my helmet.

The highway stretched before us like an invitation, concrete yielding to the mountains that rose in the distance, hazy blue against the morning sky.

With every mile, Denver's sprawl fell away, replaced by open spaces and the promise of wilderness.

I was acutely conscious of my hands against Cash's stomach, directly on his warm skin, the defined ridges of muscle flexing beneath my fingertips.

Even through two layers of leather and the constant vibration of the engine, I felt every subtle shift of his body, every breath, every minute adjustment as he handled the powerful machine between our legs.

Cash rode with an effortless confidence that made something primal curl deep in my belly.

His body telegraphed every move before he made it—the slight lean before a curve, the minute tension before acceleration.

After the first few miles, I found myself following his movements instinctively, my body melding to his like we'd been riding together for years instead of weeks.

He’d told me I was good at that, and I tried my best to pay attention to every flex of his muscles, every shift of his body.

“Kinda easier to figure out what you’re about to do with my hands on your abs,” I commented to no one but myself. “Maybe when you won’t talk to me, I can just grope you and try to guess what you’re thinking.”

I let my thumbs move slightly, tracing the contours of muscle beneath his shirt.

I felt him tense momentarily, then relax into the touch.

Emboldened, I spread my fingers wider, exploring the landscape of his torso with cautious pressure.

His skin was furnace-hot against my palms, and I swore I could feel his heartbeat quickening beneath my touch.

“I keep telling myself there’s nothing there, that you’re straight, but why do you keep showing up? Why did you want me to ride with you and not Dylan?” I asked into the void. “I wish you would just talk to me. I swear I won’t judge you by what you’re thinking, or by what you have to say.”

He said nothing, of course, because he couldn’t hear me, but my hands remained tucked under his jacket, fingers splayed across his abs.

When we hit a straight stretch of highway, Cash surprised me by briefly covering my hands with one of his, pressing them more firmly against his stomach before returning to the handlebars.

The gesture was possessive, intimate in a way that made my breath catch.

It felt like a response to what I’d said, but I told myself maybe it was some sort of secret motorcycle rider signal. Like telling me he had to pee. Because it wasn’t like he could hear me.

After nearly an hour of riding, Cash signaled and pulled off the highway into a gas station that seemed to have materialized from nowhere.

The lot was already occupied by several motorcycles I recognized from FRMC—Silas's custom cruiser, Liv's sleek sport bike, Dylan's vintage bike with its distinctive sidecar, stuffed with supplies.

Marcus was there too, leaning against his bike while animatedly talking to a group of riders I'd seen around the shop but didn't know by name.

Cash pulled up to a pump and cut the engine. The sudden silence felt strange after the constant roar, leaving my ears ringing slightly. He stood, supporting the bike as I carefully dismounted on wobbling legs, then took off his gloves and helmet, stretching his legs.

“I’d like to stretch those legs a bit myself,” I muttered into the helmet.

"You good?" he asked, those amber eyes scanning my face as I flipped the visor up on my helmet.

"Yeah," I said, working to keep my voice steady despite feeling like I'd been vibrated to pieces in the most delicious way. "Just getting my land legs back."

The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile.

He swung his leg over the bike with that fluid grace that made my mouth go dry, then began filling the tank. I tugged my helmet off and raked a hand through my hair, then took the opportunity to stretch, painfully aware of how my body had stiffened from holding one position for so long.

"Aiden!" Marcus called, spotting me from across the lot. "You made it!" He bounded over like an enthusiastic puppy, eyes bright with excitement. "How's the ride with Mr. Sunshine here?"

"Amazing," I admitted, unable to keep the smile from my face. "I had no idea what I was missing."

Marcus grinned, glancing between me and Cash with poorly disguised interest. "You look good in leather. Doesn't he, Cash?"

Cash grunted noncommittally, focusing intently on the gas pump as if it required his complete concentration. Marcus winked at me, clearly enjoying Cash's discomfort.

"Come say hi to everyone," he said, dragging me toward the group by the convenience store. "Silas was taking bets on whether Cash would actually show up this year."

I let myself be pulled away, conscious of Cash's eyes following us across the lot. Silas greeted me with a nod, his usual stoic expression softened by the relaxed atmosphere of the trip.

"Surviving the ride?" he asked.

"Loving it, actually," I replied honestly. "Cash is a great rider. And pretty sexy. I’d spend all my time curled up against his back if I could."

Dylan laughed and clapped me on the back. “I feel that. Man, he’s got muscles for days. I’m glad he hasn't scared you off yet."

"He’s not so scary, just quiet," I said. "And I enjoy riding with him. Though I might not be able to walk straight after all this vibration."

Liv snorted from where she was adjusting something on her bike. "Now there's an image I didn't need."

Heat rushed to my face as I realized the unintentional double entendre. "I didn't mean—"

"Sure you didn't," Dylan teased. “Nice helmet, by the way.”

“Cash got it for me,” I said. “Or… I think it’s for me? He didn’t actually say.”

“Helmets are kind of personal,” Marcus said. “I’m sure it’s for you. That spare you were wearing didn’t fit too great, and it didn’t have the communication device.”

I blinked. “Communication device?”

“Yeah. This button right here.” He tapped the part of my chin that Cash had been fiddling with earlier. “Looks like it’s set to switch on when you talk.”

“Oh,” I yelped, thinking about the way I’d been teasing Cash on the bike. And talking about my erection. Oh shit. I glanced his way, but he wasn’t looking at us. Wait, had he heard that entire conversation? I frantically tried to remember what I’d said.

Unaware of my panic, Marcus handed me a bottle of water from the small cooler they'd brought. "Take off that helmet and drink up. Dehydration's a bitch on long rides. And make sure to run inside and use the bathroom. Give Cash a water, too."

I accepted the water gratefully, then went inside and grabbed a few snacks for both of us and used the bathroom, still wondering if my radio had been on that whole time.

By the time I got outside, some of the group had left, but Cash didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

He'd finished refueling and was now checking something on the bike, strong hands moving with practiced precision over the machine.

I gave him the water, and he chugged it, his throat working in a way that was almost pornographic.

“Um, so we have radios on our helmets?” I asked, fiddling with mine.

His mouth tilted up, and he nodded.

“You could maybe just forget about all that stuff I said about you giving me a hard-on. You know. Like… I was babbling and teasing you because I didn’t think you could hear me.”

Cash’s smile only got wider. Wider than I’d ever seen him smile, and Cash smiling was a thing of true beauty. It made butterflies take flight deep in my stomach. As I secured my helmet, he reached out and flipped the mic on once again.

“I mean, you don’t really need to hear everything I say, do you?” I asked.

He gave a sharp nod, his lips still twitching, and climbed onto the bike, hauling me against him once again as I climbed on behind him. Did he like my random yammering?

Did he like knowing he made my cock hard?

“Fuck, I’m so confused,” I grumped into the helmet.

He reached back and rubbed my thigh, in a gesture that felt possessive. And intimate.

The engine roared to life beneath us, and we pulled out of the gas station behind the others, joining the caravan of motorcycles heading toward the mountains.

I surrendered to the sensation of being wrapped around Cash, my front molded to his back, hands warm against his stomach.

My fingers traced small, tentative patterns against his abs, testing boundaries, and I felt a shudder run through him that had nothing to do with the bike's vibration.