Page 18 of The Games We Play

“Ready?” I ask, trying to regain my focus as she wraps her legs around me, her thighs gripping mine. I get lost in the fragrant scent of her.

“Not really,” she says.

“I’ll go slow.” The bike rumbles to life beneath us. I pull away from the curb as slowly as the bike can go without us tipping over.

Her hands tighten around my waist, about four inches above my dick.

I feel like I’m fourteen again, getting my first bike from my dad. It was a wreck of a thing. Took me six months to fix it up before I could properly ride it. But Dad felt it was important that I know how a bike worked if I were going to ride and appreciate one. He moved to Florida three years ago due to chronic arthritis that hated the cold. He left the Iron Outlaws in good standing, returned all his club stuff, and settled in for some sunshine and year-round riding when his aching joints let him.

But that freedom and excitement I experienced as a kid ... yeah, I feel that now.

More than that. I know Iris is safe with me.

I can rest for a minute.

I take the long way to her house, but it’s still too soon when I drop her off.

I feel the cold as she slips her legs from the back of the bike. She stumbles, and I reach for her hand, savoring the warmth as her fingers meet mine. I’ve got her, and she doesn’t even know it.

But I can’t keep her without bringing more trouble to her door.

“Why are you here?” Iris asks. “Why are you always”—she gestures around—“here? Wherever I am?”

I pull her hand to my lips and kiss the back of it. “Because the earth always orbits the sun.”

“What?”

“It’s late. Say sorry, then go inside, Iris.”

“What am I apologizing for?”

“For letting him take you to dinner. For letting him hold your hand.” I slide my fingers through hers. They’re long and slender like I remember. “For letting that loser take care of you.”

She frowns and snatches back her hand. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can.” I raise an eyebrow and can’t help but notice her nipples are erect beneath the fabric of her dress. “Do you touch yourself and think of me, Iris?”

She huffs. “The only thing I think about is how good it feels.”

“Would you let me watch you?” I drag a knuckle down her arm, watching the goose bumps that form at my touch. “If I promised to keep my distance.”

She opens her mouth, those sweet lips wide, as if she wants to say something more but then thinks better of it and turns for her front door. I track her ass up the stairs, but she pauses at the top.

Over her shoulder, she says, “I guess you can do what you want.”

She steps inside, and I hear the lock click.

One lock.

I’m going to have to fix that. Should have at least two, maybe a chain as well.

But more importantly, what did she mean, that I could do what I want? Was she really inviting me to watch her tonight? I wait for the usual sequence of lights, her usual trip to the fridge for water, then the bathroom—but it doesn’t happen.

I step off my bike and walk around to the back garden her bedroom window faces out to.

The kitchen is a flat roof extension, but above it is ...

I hear a faint buzzing.