Meara and Oakley Ch. 02

I try to ignore him for the rest of the night. It's pretty difficult. I can feel him watching me, but every time I turn to try to catch him, he's turned away, immersed in conversation with one of his biker buddies.

I think perhaps I misinterpreted his words, his heated gaze. He was just trying to help. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

At 230 am., when the patrons are gone and cleanup is completed, I lock up and head out to my car. I'm exhausted, as usual, my body one huge knot of tension, both from work and the energy it took to fight off the constant, unbidden thoughts of a certain green-eyed biker.

I hadn't necessarily sworn off men. After my divorce, it just seemed so much safer and more productive to focus on the bar. I didn't have it in me to deal with anything else; I had no desire to deal with any more emotionally stunted, greedy, needy men. My heart, my body and my bed remained empty. I had grown to like it. Until tonight, it seemed. My libido had other things in mind.

I'm surprised to find the biker waiting for me. He's leaning against the driver's door of my car. In the dim wash of wavering yellow light thrown over the parking lot, he is breathtaking. His arms are folded over his broad chest, his long, jean-clad legs crossed at the ankles. He looks at ease, as if he hasn't a care in the world, but when he lifts his gaze to me, I know he's been watching, waiting. There's a light in his eyes which speaks of awareness.

Fear tickles along the skin of my arms at the thought of being alone, in a dark parking lot, with this man. And something else, something which ignites my insides, setting them to a slow burn.

"What are you doing?"

A beat passes before he uncurls his body from its position, his movements putting me in mind of some large jungle cat slinking out of the darkness. He steps to the side and my eyes zero in on my window, which is open, though I'm sure I'd put it up just before I went into the bar that afternoon. A few steps closer and I see evidence of what used to be my window littering the driver's seat. Large chunks of glass sparkle like sharp diamonds against the leather interior. And the front driver's side tire is very obviously flat.

"This is why I asked what time you were finished," the biker says. "Guys like your friend Carter never take rejection too well."

Understanding dawns in my brain and whatever I had been feeling a moment ago bleeds away, turning to rage and bringing with it memories I'd just as soon forget.

"One of my buddies saw him shuffling around the lot. Didn't catch him in the act though. Sorry."

My fingers curl into fists and I tamp down on the irrational urge to kick something.

"That limp-dicked, cock-sucking, no neck piece of shit!"

My voice cuts through the night, a flash of red-hot anger. My chest tightens.

I know where Carter lives. I could slash his tires, bust out a couple of the front windows of his house with a few precisely aimed rocks. Then I could climb through one of those windows and stab him in the balls with his own kitchen knife.

The idea is tempting, I can see it playing out in bright technicolor in my minds eyes.

"I'll take you home."

My head snaps up sharply and the biker is standing beside me, watching me.

I think of being on the back of his bike, my arms wrapped tightly around his waist and my breasts pressed against his back, and some of my ire melts away.

"Uh, no. Thank you. I can call someone to come for me."

He cocks his head to the side.

"It's almost 3 am. That doesn't make any sense. I'm here. I'll take you home."

He pauses, then raises his eyebrow at me.

My heart stutters, the saliva drying up in my mouth. This guy is dangerous, I know it. I can feel it. But, not in the way that makes me think I might end up in a ditch somewhere. No. It's what happens when he speaks, when he looks at me. And the thought of being so close to him... He makes me wonder what those strong hands would feel like gliding over my skin, skin that has grown hot and itchy with anticipation.

He doesn't wait for my response. He steps close and lightly fits his big hand against the small of my back, guiding me away from my car. His scent drifts around me, clean and sharp, leather and wind on a clear spring afternoon.

His bike is parked at the edge of the bar, its chrome glittering beautifully in the light. I've never been on a motorcycle before, and it's a little intimidating.

"I'll take it easy," he says, obviously reading the line of tension that has rocketed through my body.

"I'm fine," I lie. "I just ... I'm going to text my brother. He's a lawyer. I'll let him know what happened."

The biker nods, stands staring at me through a set of long, dark lashes. He is strikingly handsome, both dark and light, with a strong jawline and lips that are neither thin nor overly full. Kissable. Soft.

"Good call."

He watches me fumble my phone out of my purse. My palms are sweaty as I type a hasty message to not only my brother but my sister as well.

Me: Carter Ludlow busted a window out my car. Flattened a tire. Getting a ride home from a patron. Will text when I get back to the house.

I don't expect an immediate response from my siblings, not at such a late hour. Yet, I stand gazing down at my phone's screen, in need of something to distract me from this rising cloud of ... hell, I don't even know what to call it. I am uncomfortable, uncertain, my stomach fluttering nervously. Something about this man calls to me, tempts me toward thoughts I haven't entertained in quite a long time.

"Ready?"

I jump at the sound of his voice, nearly dropping and shattering my phone on the pavement. A glance upward reveals a thin, amused look on the biker's face. But it's only a glimpse. Gone before it's fully formed.

I watch him swing one long, jean clad leg over the seat of the bike. He gives me brief instructions on mounting behind him and I stand staring at him a long moment. My apparent attraction to this man, combined with my anxiety about getting on the bike make me feel slightly nauseated. There is a fine tremor in my legs. I entertain the thought of walking home. However, a 5 mile hike in the dead of night is not overly appealing either.

He's watching me closely. His green eyes glitter faintly in the dim light falling over us.

"My name is Meara," I say, searching for something, anything, to prolong this moment, to keep my feet planted firmly on the ground. A distant part of me thinks this may not be just a ride home from a kind stranger after a late night. Something tugs at my insides, something soft and strange and distantly familiar.

He nods once. "Oakley. Get on the bike, Meara."

No assurances, no pleasantries. Simple. Straightforward.

Another minute passes before I move. I do as he has instructed, thinking that I probably look extremely awkward. I settle behind him, my thighs bracketing his waist. It feels weird, the breadth of the seat and the warmth of his body between my legs, though not altogether unpleasant.

"Wrap your arms around my waist." he says over his shoulder. Maybe I'm going crazy, but it sounds as if his voice has taken on a darker tone. Perhaps he's just as affected as I am. I try not to think about that and, instead, try to focus on his words. "Pay attention to the way I move. Lean with me, but not too much, or we'll both fall."

I nod, making note of these additional instructions, and manage to stammer out my address.

I jump when he engages the ignition. The bike is so loud, the noise of it cutting through the night and displacing every other usual nighttime noise.

He gives me a few moments to get situated, to get accustomed to the throb and growl of the machine beneath me. I can feel it in my bones and it almost feels good.

Then we're off, turning left out of the lot, heading west toward my house.

At first, I'm terrified. Neither one of us is wearing a helmet. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm plastered to the back of a stranger, speeding through the night as if it were all the most normal thing in the world.

And, then, suddenly, it all changes and I'm enjoying myself - the bite of the wind in my face, the rumble of the engine beneath me, the solid warmth of the man in front of me. Without thinking, I close my eyes and press my cheek into the his shoulder.

My mind is empty, clear, and it feels so fucking good.

However, all too soon Oakley is pulling up in front of my house. The two story structure looms in the darkness, the only source of light coming from the overhead on the front porch.

Oakley cuts the engine and, while my mind is telling me to "get off", I sit motionless, reveling in the remembered feel of the wind on my face, the exhilaration of the ride itself and being pressed against this big man.

He shifts in the seat and, taking this as a sign of discomfort, I scramble off the bike.

My body immediately, strangely, misses the feel of him. I watch him dismount, his movements unbelievably fluid and graceful, and he is, once again, staring down at me.

"Thank you." I sound breathless. The tremor that had started in my legs is a vibration now, a low hum that envelops my thighs. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. My core. I pull my bag tighter against my side.

"You enjoyed that."

He sounds surprised and pleased. It makes me smile, forces a hiccuping laugh out of me.

"I did!"

And it's the truth. Oakley is a stranger, one to whom I'm undeniably attracted; I let him put me on the back of his back, and the experience was incredible.

"Maybe we can do it again sometime," he offers.

He is watching me closely, perhaps gauging my reaction and, suddenly, all the good feelings I had been having before revert back to anxiety. My spine lengthens and I stare back at him.

He seems like a good guy. I mean, he kicked a patron out for harassing me, waited around for me to shut down the bar, and even gave me a ride home after Carter damaged my car. He hasn't said more than a few words to me, none of which include the many and various ways he'd like to get into my pants. It's nice. It's refreshing. Almost more intimate than anything I've ever known.

My mouth is moving even before I've made the decision to do so, surprising both of us, I think.

"I'd... like that."

Oakley's body shifts then, his broad shoulder relaxing just the tiniest bit, as if he'd been holding his breath. His jaw ticks and he gives me one of those single nods again.

"Good night."

He's seated on his bike before I can thank him.

"You're welcome." He says before starting the ignition. And, just like that, he's gone, the roaring rumble of his back fading swiftly into the night.

He's waiting for me nearly every night after that. On the rainy nights, he shows up in a pick-up truck, an aged, hulking thing that suits him completely. On the clear nights, he's riding his bike.

He follows me home and stays just a bit longer than the time before, until night turns into morning, and the birds are singing their cheerful greetings.

We don't talk much; the silence is oddly comfortable and very welcome. Eventually, the beers from the night before are exchanged for coffee and, sometimes, I wonder where he goes, what he does, when he's not with me. Does he have a wife, a girlfriend, a family, waiting up for him? But, I don't ask, and he doesn't offer, and I merely take it for what it is - quiet company in the darkness.

On one of those lightening early mornings, he kisses me, sliding his hard body up against mine, and I'm done for, melting under the hot feel of his mouth, the wet glide of his tongue. And, it's just as I thought, his big hands feel fucking amazing on my skin.

"We're not doing this if you're just looking for a little something on the side," I manage when he's got me pressed into the front door. I'd never invited him inside.

"There's no one," he murmurs, his voice gruff in my ear, his teeth dragging down the sensitive line of my neck. My body damn near convulses. He's got his leg wedged between my thighs, his hands on my hips, as he urges me to grind over it. He kisses me hungrily, swallowing up the moans I pant into his mouth.

That first time is incredible. His hands move me, push and pull me, leave me a hot quivering mess. His cock claims me, drives me higher and higher, gives me no other choice but to come for him, over and over again.

I don't wonder at his experience, or his certainty. I am fucking grateful for it, if I'm honest.

I'm not sure when, but he manages to plug his number into my cell phone. He starts texting before he shows up - tells me he's coming over instead of asking if I'm free. He knows I am, and there's always a measure of excitement that thrills through me at the sight of him.

Time passes and the rhythm solidifies itself. I don't know what we are, but I like it. It's effortless, and easy, and deliciously uncomplicated, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum from everything I had known previously.

Until the bike bunny.

Until Ella and her nosey, destructive ass.