Too whatever Jeremy made her think she was.
“You won’t hurt me,” I say.
She hesitates.
Then her arms slide around my waist.
Careful at first.
Then tighter when Widowmaker vibrates beneath us.
Her breasts press against my back.
Every bit of blood in my body gets real stupid, real fast.
I grip the bars and stare down the driveway.
Fake.
This is fake.
This is public strategy.
This ain’t me thinking about her thighs against mine, her hands near my belt, the way she smells like borrowed soap, woman and fear.
“You ready?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good enough.”
I ease Widowmaker down the gravel drive slow.
Not because I ride slow.
Because she is behind me, and I feel the exact moment her breath hitches when the tires roll over loose stone.
Her arms tighten.
Not tight enough to hurt.
Tight enough that something in my chest answers.
By the time we hit pavement, she is pressed close and holding on for real.
I keep the ride smooth.
No showing off. No hard curves. No throttle bullshit. No making her fear prove something for me. We take the back road toward Hell, past black fences, wet fields, and horse farms glowing green under the low sun. Kentucky rolls around us, all hills and hollows, patched barns, white rails, roadside crosses, and trees leaning over the asphalt like they want to gossip too.
Amelia loosens a little after the first mile.
Not much.
Enough.
At a stop sign, she leans closer to my helmet. “I’m not dead.”
I turn my head enough for her to hear me. “Told you.”