Live Your Dream

by BB Miller

  “You sure he knows that? Because I’m pretty sure Jeffrey-boy there used the word date.”

  She throws her hands up. “You are the most frustrating person on the planet!”

  “Right back at you, sweetheart.” We’re drawing a bit of a crowd. People are gawking in that way they do when something upsets their otherwise mundane day. I try the bike once more, a wave of relief rolling through me when the engine turns over. At least I can count on something.

  She narrows her eyes at me before reaching for the key to the bike and, in a bold move, turns it swiftly, tugging it from the ignition. I’m not sure if I should be amused or irritated. “Did you just steal my key?” There’s a dangerous tone to my voice, but she completely ignores it.

  Instead, she waves the key at me before taking a step away from the bike. “What is this, anyway?” She motions to the motorcycle, scanning it with interest.

  “It’s a Victory custom,” I grind out.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she murmurs almost in awe.

  “I built it. That’s why.”

  Her delicious mouth drops open, and she stares at me in disbelief. “You built this?”

  “Guilty as charged.” I lean back in the custom leather seat, folding my arms across my chest. Score one for me. “Surprised?”

  She nods slowly, her gaze sweeping appreciatively over the black and chrome frame. I feel a strange twinge of pride wash over me. Tom and I worked for countless hours on this bike. It’s one of a kind, like all the bikes we’ve built together over the years. “I had no idea.”

  “You’d be shocked what you don’t know about me.”

  That seems to snap her back to her fine assertive self, and she levels me with an annoyed look. “Right back at you, sweetheart,” she fires back at me.

  The air is thick with a heady mix of tension, desire, and frustration as we stare at each other in a silent standoff. The world could fall apart around us, and I don’t think either one of us would notice.

  “He your boyfriend?” I ask finally, glad to be grounded to the seat of the bike. I don’t trust myself right now.

  Her expression softens, and she shakes her head. “God no. You think I would’ve spent the night with you if I had a boyfriend?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? And maybe you should try raising your standards just a little.” I lift a brow in response. “You know this is pretty hypocritical coming from you, Mr. Fuck-my-way-through-the-female-population. God! You’re with a different woman every single time I turn around.”

  “When’s the last time you saw some picture of me with a woman?” I challenge, knowing I’m treading on thin ice. There’re pictures out there, loads of them. Probably entire sites dedicated to Redfall and our various hookups over the years. We’ve been more careful lately, with the concert for Parker in mind, but cell phones coupled with the dreaded paparazzi means pictures are bound to get out. And let’s face it; none of us are in line for sainthood.

  Still, she seems to consider my question for a minute before answering. “Before the concert for Parker, I guess.”

  “Mhmm. Exactly.”

  She lets out a hard laugh. “So, a couple of weeks and you’re some reformed dark angel all of a sudden? Forgive me if I find that very hard to believe.”

  “And forgive me if I didn’t realize you had a hot date tonight.”

  “You don’t have any claim on me!” she yells, and I give her a slow nod.

  “No. I sure don’t. That’s pretty clear.”

  That shuts her up. Her mouth mashes into a firm line, the tension evident in her body, like she’s fighting some internal battle with herself. “If you’ll just give me my key. I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Holding her gaze, I extend my hand and wait. I feel the cool metal drop into my palm, and I can’t resist closing my hand around her fingers, tugging her forward against the frame of the bike.

  She takes a surprised breath in, her eyes widening as I lean towards her, my mouth hovering just shy of hers. “God, I want to—”

  “So do I,” she interrupts, her voice uneasy.

  Needing some distance, I lean back against the seat, my heart pounding with an unfamiliar beat. “How about a ride first? Extra helmet’s in the saddlebag.”

  She blinks, giving the bike a wary scan, and I can almost hear the internal war she’s waging. “It’s a pretty easy yes or no answer. You either want a ride or don’t. Choice is yours, Tess. It always will be.”

  Tessa

  My heart races as I stare at him in astonishment. His chin lifts in challenge as he smirks at me, but there’s a glint of resignation in his eyes. As if he’s fully expecting me to go back inside and fail this test, which is exactly what this feels like—a test.

  “I don’t have my purse, or even my coat,” I say, stalling. My eyes flicker over the bike once more. It’s gorgeous, but not exactly made for demure riding. He purses his lips, considering, and then silently removes his leather jacket and offers it.

  “You don’t need your purse for where we’re going.”

  I eye him warily. “And where is that, pray tell?”

  “Climb on and find out.”

  Without any further thought, I take his offered coat and slip it on, pretending not to notice the surprise on his face. The worn leather hangs below my ass, and I have to shove the sleeves up so I can use my hands.

  Popping the catch on the saddlebag, I pull out the black helmet and slam the lid again. I catch him stifling a smile as I toss my hair over my shoulder and step up, easily slinging my leg over the bike. Thank God, I wore tights with my ankle boots this morning. My skirt rides up to my upper thigh, and I gasp when I feel his hand on my knee.

  “Put on your helmet and hang on, sweetheart,” he purrs before tugging on his own black helmet. I hastily follow suit and wrap my arms around his waist. My breath catches in my throat at the feel of his hard torso through his simple black T-shirt. He reaches back and tugs at my knee, urging me closer, so I snug up tighter, fully pressing my chest to his back. He rumbles something that sounds like, “That’s better,” and then we’re off.

  It’s been years since I rode on a motorcycle, and I’ve forgotten how exhilarating it is to fly through the city with nothing between you and the surrounding traffic. The powerful vibrations surge through me, making it hard to think about anything besides hanging on. The frustration I felt before drains away, and I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up. For a few thrilling minutes, I can forget the confusing desire and irritation I feel for him and just let myself enjoy the moment. Between the warmth of his jacket and the heat emanating from his body, I feel like I’m in a sauna. It’s pure heaven.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re nearing the wharf. He turns down an alley off Stockton and stops in front of a gated driveway. He punches a code into a tiny, beat-up keypad, and the gate slowly rolls up, making a godawful noise as it goes.

  “Jesus,” I observe mildly, and I can hear his laughter.

  “Beats having an alarm system,” he grunts. We pull into a garage that’s much larger than I expected to find, based on the small entrance. It’s also a biker’s idea of heaven.

  We park next to three other bikes: a Ducati, a classic Harley, and something else that’s in pieces. He shuts the motor off and the sudden silence seems surreal. Doffing my helmet, I grip it in one hand and steady myself against his shoulder with my other as I climb off. He casually pulls his helmet off and runs a hand through the remains of his savaged hair, watching me as I survey the space.

  It’s neat as a pin, from the large selection of hand tools perfectly arrayed on the wall above a well-used workbench, to the tidy coil of extension cords next to the professional bike lift. Impressive. I turn and am surprised to see a gorgeous, old glossy-black Camaro off to the side, almost like a forgotten toy.

  “Is that a ’67?”

  He gapes at me for a second before slamming hi
s mouth shut. “Sixty-eight. How did you know that?”

  “Oh, I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years.” He frowns, and I hate to think what’s running through that head of his now. “My dad had one when I was little,” I explain, putting him out of his misery.

  “Oh.” Taking a deep breath, he looks relieved and holds his hand out to me; I automatically place mine in his much larger one. He slowly rubs his calloused thumb over my knuckles, the action somehow more intimate than the passionate kiss he gave me in my office. “Come on,” he murmurs, and leads me toward a doorway at the back of the garage.

  The heat that had been boiling over between us earlier has calmed to a simmer, and I can feel his nerves as he leads me up a long flight of stairs. When we reach the second landing, I pause, trying not to pant. These are killer stairs. “Where the hell are you taking me?”

  “My place,” he says shortly, tugging at my hand. “We’re almost there.”

  “Jeez, it’s like climbing the Filbert Street steps. Do you haul groceries up all these steps?” It’s not something I would ever picture him doing.

  “Nah. The stairs are just to the private garage. There’s an elevator that leads down to a central lobby in the front for stuff like that.” He finally stops at the top, opens a door, and gestures for me to walk ahead of him. “Here we are.”

  Feeling a bit like the fly to his spider, I step into a large open space that looks like a converted warehouse. The walls are a rough brick and the ceiling has exposed beams and air ducts. From where I stand, I can see pale leather sofas and several guitars on display. In another corner are a dining set and a sleek kitchen. In the remaining corner is a spiral staircase; it leads up to an open loft edged with low walls so I can’t see what’s up there, but I’m guessing it’s his bedroom.

  It looks comfortable, but rugged and eminently masculine … just like its owner.

  “Nice place,” I say, strolling along one wall. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk. It’s unnerving.

  He steps over and sets the helmet he’d been carrying on the dining table and turns to lean against a chair. “Thanks.” He points toward a large steel sliding door suspended from two wheels on a long bar. “That’s the main door that leads to the elevator.”

  “The women you bring here must love this.” I gesture to the gas fireplace and try to appear unaffected. I could easily imagine him curled up on the couch with some faceless bimbo in front of the fire, doing all those things that keep haunting my dreams.

  “I don’t bring women here,” he says, his voice clipped.

  I look at him skeptically. “But you brought me here.”

  “I did.” He frowns down at his feet and doesn’t elaborate, so I continue my tour. It’s a feeble attempt to stall whatever is coming next, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

  “If you live this close, why did you stay at the Fairmont after the concert?” A series of rough-hewn boards serve as shelves—they’re perched on long spikes driven into one wall. I peer closely at one photo nestled among several shots of the band. It’s a photo of a teenaged Matt standing proudly with a classic Harley and a tall, imposing older man with an impressive walrus moustache. The man is wearing a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and his bulging biceps are covered with tattoos. The photos are the only homey touches in the otherwise spartan room.

  “Sean and Cam were staying there,” he replies with a shrug. “It’s easier.”

  Two large, arched windows dominate the wall by the kitchen. They’re filthy, but I can see across the rooftops next door to the bay. My fingers brush against the tuning pegs of a guitar in its stand. All of the instruments are gorgeous. It seems he prefers natural wood colors, although one of them is a deep, glossy blood red.

  His voice comes from right behind me and I jump. Damn, he’s quiet, despite wearing heavy boots. He stares into my eyes, and my stomach flutters with nerves. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Why the hell did I get on his bike?

  Stepping quickly, I put a sofa between us. It’s hard to think when he’s so close.

  “Matt, why am I here?” I search his eyes, trying to tamp down the hope bubbling up in me. This man attracts me like no one else I’ve ever met. He’s infuriating, stubborn, and petulant, but he can also be kind, generous, and loyal. I saw that side of him when he and the band played at the hospital for Parker and the other sick kids on the cancer ward. Parker was the little boy whose dream had started all of this—the boy who had brought Redfall into all of our lives.

  “I told you before.” His soft voice contains a determined note that makes me look up. “I want to get to know you. Tess, that night …” He shakes his head and runs a hand nervously over his ragged hair. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind, as clichéd as that may sound. And I want a chance to … Well, I want a chance. With you.”

  I blink in surprise, feeling my jaw go slack. Could it be true? To give myself time, I look down at the couch and adjust one of the pillows. “But you said you don’t remember much from that night. What if the rest of me doesn’t meet with your expectations?”

  He steps swiftly around the sofa and gently takes my chin between his fingers. “Tessa Baker, I honestly don’t think that’s possible.” His lips descend in a sweet kiss, and everything seems to disappear except him. My hands automatically slide up his firm chest, and one slips around his neck to hold him against me. His mouth moves gently against mine, until the tip of his tongue teases my lips to open.

  That simmering passion between us boils over again, and my heart hammers in my chest. From my chin, his hand moves to the side of my face, while his other cups the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. I cling to his shirt, holding him close as he kisses the breath out of me. When he finally pulls away, I can barely see straight.

  “I just wanted to talk tonight.” His nose skims my jawline, making me shiver. “I want to get to know you better. All of you. But I swear to Christ, Tess, when I kiss you … feel that sweet body of yours … talking is the last thing I want to do.”

  I run my hand over his hair and thread my fingers through his floppy center strip, tugging gently. “We can talk later,” I breathe. “Because I feel the same way.”

  He groans and presses his lips to mine, his hands moving to my shoulders. “You want to know what I remember about that night?” His voice is low with barely restrained passion. “This.” He kisses me again, his fingers trailing down my shoulders, and completely catches me off guard when he rips open my blouse. Delicate buttons fly as his face descends to nuzzle my chest. “I remember these, too,” he grunts, kneading and squeezing my breasts with his large hands. I gasp when he deftly scoops each breast out of the top of my bra and suckles me hard. “So fucking round, and firm, and real.”

  I can’t help the mewling noises escaping me, and I clutch his shoulders for support. Desire burns hot like a wildfire, and I feel like I’m about to explode. It may be a mistake, but I can’t deny it—I want him. Now.

  His lips reclaim mine and he scrambles to push my skirt up as I struggle to unbutton his jeans. Suddenly he looks down and scowls. “How the fuck …”

  He tugs at my tights, and I giggle at his befuddled expression. “They’re tights,” I taunt, unable to help myself. “Too much of a challenge for you?” His eyes narrow and he spins me to the right; in a flash, I’m bent over the dining table, and he pulls down my tights and panties in one swift move. I feel the cool air on my ass.

  An open wallet hits the table next to my face, startling me, but a hand against my back holds me in place. His fingers slip between my legs. Holy mother of … In and out, stroking me, stoking the fire within until I can barely stand it. “I remember this, too.” He’s breathing hard and his voice is rough. “So smooth, and tight, and wet. You’re fucking perfect.”

  Then his touch is gone, leaving me squirming; the silence is punctuated by the sound of panting, both his and mine, and a quiet rip and rustling behind me. Before I can stand up, he grips my hips and I feel a nudge
.

  A cry escapes me as he pushes inside. It’s not painful, but holy fucking Christ! Now I know why I felt like I’d been split in two the morning after. Howitzer doesn’t feel like an exaggeration.

  His chest presses against my back, and I can feel his hot breath against my ear. “And I remember this.” He thrusts again to emphasize his words. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes!” I wail, my hands scrambling against the smooth surface of the table as he begins moving in earnest. He feels so good … so, so good … and so much better than my memories. The strength conveyed by his thrusts and his hold on me sends thrills running down my spine. The table is cold and hard against my skin, a delicious contrast with the heat coursing through me. He’s hitting every one of my spots, and my climax quickly builds, teeters tantalizingly on the edge, and then spills over spectacularly, tearing another cry from my throat. I see spots before my eyes, and I can’t catch my breath. His movements become choppy, and I hear a chorus of guttural cursing above me before he slams in one more time and stills.

  My breath is knocked out of me again when he collapses against my back. His hands find mine on the table, and he links our fingers as we lay there a moment, letting our racing hearts calm. “Holy fuck,” he rasps, and then chuckles weakly. “You’re going to kill me, woman.”

  “If you don’t let me breathe, I’m the one who’ll be in trouble,” I wheeze. The closeness is nice, but I’m beginning to lose circulation in my legs.

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” he blurts. He helps me to stand, but my legs give away, and we sink to the floor in a tangle of limbs and loose clothing. Our laughter trails off as he takes my face between his rough hands. He’s smiling gently, but it’s the vulnerability in his blue eyes that touches my heart.

  “That is what I remember about that night,” he whispers. “This—” He gently taps my forehead. “—is what I want to learn more about. If you’re willing.”

  I nod, feeling like I’m stepping off a cliff, and his breath leaves him in a whoosh. “Yeah?” He looks as if he doesn’t quite believe me.