Fuck, I’d give her any experience she wanted.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence stretches between us. I don’t know what to say to keep her here, but she doesn’t seem ready to leave.

“Why don’t you wear leathers?” Her gaze wanders over my thighs and my jeans feel really fucking tight in the crotch again.

“You’d like to see me in leathers, would you?” My voice deepens, and I plaster a cocky smirk on my face, back in my comfort zone of being an arsehole.

“Yes.” The answer is simple and comes without hesitation as she stares at me, and this time doesn’t look away. The golden flecks flare in her eyes and hold me captive.

“Well, I’m sure I can arrange that for you.” The smirk on my face dies when the heat in her eyes increases tenfold. At a loss for words, I do nothing but wait, swallowing hard when she simply stares away from me. She’s unsettling me and I really need to shake out of it.

“Okay, I really need to get going,” she mutters. She pivots and makes her way back to the workshop, shrugging my jacket off as she goes. What the hell just happened?

I dismount in a hurry and race up behind her. She instantly spins around and loses her balance. Before she can fall, she’s in my arms, limp against my chest. Her body trembles against mine and when she pulls away, her eyes are wide, her skin pale. My arms fall away and I step back. Fear is not something I ever want to see on her face, especially not fear caused by me.

“Sorry, I-I,” she stutters softly, but she won’t look at me.

“No. I’m the one that’s sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” I shove my hands in my pockets so I don’t do anything stupid again, like grab her and kiss the shit out of her perfect lips.

“You didn’t.”

“Lizzie?” She finally lifts her head and the fear is gone. Good. “Go out for a drink with me?”

She shakes her head before any words manage to come out. “I can’t.”

I’m such a stupid bastard. Firstly, who asks a woman out for a drink when they’ve just scared her shitless? And secondly, what the fuck am I thinking? I don’t do dates. Not even casual drinking ones.

“I’m sorry.” She pushes my jacket into my chest, grabs her own jacket and bag, and then turns to leave.

I let her. It won’t end well if I stop her, although I’m not sure who it would be worse for. My eyes never stray from her arse as she walks away, unlocks her beamer, and climbs in. Even then, I don’t stop. I keep her in my sight as she pulls away. At the last possible second, she looks at me. My heart stops. Dull eyes have replaced the light I saw earlier, and a wave of anger flows through me. Then she’s gone.

IT’S BEEN A couple of weeks since I rode my bike. Every time I try to mount her I have visions of mounting something entirely different. It’s on my mind as I exit the taxi and enter the club. This itch is something I need to deal with. And as my friend, Bear, wanted to meet me here, I figure it’s a good place to scratch it.

The pungent smells of beer, perfume, and sweat hit me when I push through the doors. The place is already rammed. It’s a newish venue on the other side of town. We don’t usually venture this far out, but Bear’s working on this side of town. Scanning the area, I find him leaning up against the bar, a pint set to his right already waiting for me. His chin is propped up on a balled fist, and the other hand spins the pint glass he’s staring at. He looks distracted and tired.

I place my arm around his shoulder and lean in. “You look sleep deprived, mate.” I slap him on the back and pick up the pint, nodding in thanks.

“I needed a drink,” he states.

It’s unlike Bear to drink for the sake of it. That’s more my area of expertise. “What’s up?”

He stands up straighter, and his gaze wanders to the dance floor, then back to me. “Nothing.” He shakes his head. “You ever have the feeling that… nah, forget it.” He takes a long swig of his pint.

With my back now against the bar, I take in the view before me. I can say one thing for this place, there’re some shit-hot chicks here. Remaining quiet, I wait for Bear to finish what he was going to say. If I leave him long enough, it’ll come out. My attention is drawn by glimpses of exposed skin swaying on the dance floor.

“Stupid question to ask the man that’s like a dog with two dicks, but have you ever had the feeling any of the women you’ve fucked could’ve been the one?”

For a fraction of a second longer, my gaze stays glued to the captivating view, while his words sink in. I swing my attention back to him. “You serious? Fucking hell, mate. She must have been good to get you this confused.” I smirk at him. “What did she have up there? Cosmic cock dust?”

He gives me a half-hearted smile. “That’s what I get for asking you a serious question.”

“Sorry, man. You threw me. It wasn’t what I expected.”

“Well, are you going to answer the question?” He takes another sip of his beer.

“No.” I shake my head. “That’s a ‘no’ to your first question.” I rotate the glass in my hands. “But you remember I had that interview for the magazine?”

He laughs. “Yeah, Spud told me you took the lady out on your bike. What’s that all about?”

“Fucked if I know. But she made me feel all sorts of shit, wrapped up tight against my back. My cock’s been nowhere near her. So, yeah, I can see where you’re coming from. Why?” I neglect to tell him I can’t even ride the fucking bike now.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I hooked up with someone a couple of weeks back, and can’t get her out of my head.”

I know the feeling well. Lizzie’s invaded mine for the last few weeks. I can’t figure out why she’s had this effect on me except I want to see the light burn in her eyes again, the way it did when she was with me. Not the dull eyes she left with. “You tried shagging someone else?”

He gives me the ‘what do you take me for?’ look, both eyebrows raised, but remains silent.

“Yeah, okay. You’ve tried.”

He turns around and joins me with his back against the bar. His gaze sweeps the area. I sense him tense next to me, before he turns back around and beckons the barmaid, ordering two bottles of Peroni.

“Is she here?” It’s the only explanation I can come up with for his unsettled behaviour. Even on the worst jobs, he’s the most relaxed bloke I’ve ever come across. And women are the only things that can fuck with a man’s mind.

He nods without looking at me and takes a drink.

“Oh, shit.”

“You’ve got that right. Some bloke’s all over her and I’m this close”—he holds up his hand, forefinger and thumb virtually touching—“to ripping his fucking head off.”

Fit chicks are plentiful here; there’s no way I’ll figure out who she is without asking, but if he wanted me to know he’d volunteer the information, which he hasn’t. “Do you want me to get in his way?” It’s the only offer I can think of to help.

“What? And have her want to shag you? Cheers, mate, but I don’t think so.”

In a childish act, I nudge his elbow just as he’s about to take a drink. It misses his mouth and splashes down his chin instead. He wipes the liquid away with his forearm before he swings his elbow back straight into my gut, winding me. At least it raises a laugh out of him when I cough.

“I need to piss. Back in a few,” I state, and head off towards the toilets.

Trying to get there resembles walking up the down escalator, but I manage it, relieve myself, and walk back out. I survey the area, do a double take, and stop dead at the sight of a woman shaking her arse on the dance floor. She’s wearing a figure-hugging black dress, low in the back, a light sheen of perspiration covering the exposed skin I had fixated on earlier. Her hair’s up, exposing her neck, and when she gyrates around, my breath catches in my throat.