Page 13 of Nicoletta
I scream out when the spasms start, unable to control the power he has over my body. I milk his cock inside my body untilhe howls at the sky, jerking inside me once, twice more, then collapsing over me.
“Fuck, babe, I can’t stand up.” He wraps his arms around my waist, and we slide to the sand alongside his bike. He rolls with me until I’m on top of him, and my body takes over.
Needing more of him, I spread my legs over his hips and take him in my body again, this time, dangerously slow. Bolt’s eyes slide shut as he moves my hips over him until our bodies break again. In the sand, alongside his bike, in broad daylight.
“I think you’re trying to corrupt me.”
Bolt huffs out a laugh. “Babe, I have a feeling you were corrupted way before I came along.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe. You just took my dick twice, out in the open where all could see, and I think you fuckin’ loved it.”
I lean in and take his lips in a slow, tongue-filled kiss, then pull back slightly. “You think right.” I smile down at him. “You bring out something in me I never knew existed.”
“And you like it.”
“Much more than I imagined. My life has been filled with structure and rules. What was acceptable. What was appropriate. When, in reality, none of that stuff matters.”
I roll off him and right my clothes. Bolt does the same, then we both lean against his bike, mesmerized by the crashing waves in the distance.
“All my life, I’ve been told how to act and react, yet I always felt there was this wild child just waiting to break out.”
Bolt hugs me to his side. “Gotta say, I’m lovin’ this wild child.”
His words hang between us, and we both stay silent, each examining our own feelings. He didn’t actually use the word “love,” but the gentleness in his voice surprises me, and I think it surprises him too.
I rest my head on his shoulder, and a feeling of peace surrounds me. A serenity I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced.
My eyes close, and I let myself drift, but I can’t shake the guilt of hiding the knife. I don’t know what Bolt and I have, if anything at all, but I do know I must tell him before he finds it on his own.
“Bolt?”
His eyes flutter, then he focuses on my face.
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.” He turns to face me, just as his phone vibrates in his pocket. He shifts slightly, retrieves the device, and swipes at the screen. “Yeah?”
I can’t hear what the person on the other end is saying, but the tone is not conversational.
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Bolt straightens his spine. “I’m on it.”
He swipes away the call and turns to me. “We gotta go.” He scrambles to his side, stands, then holds his hand out to me and pulls me up.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“Gotta get back to The Tropics.”
The calm of ten seconds ago has evaporated into a cloud of dread.
Bolt swings his leg over the saddle, holds his hand out to me, and I do the same, then wrap my arms around his waist. He fires up the bike, hits the throttle, and, unlike the last time, he keeps his hands wrapped around the handlebars as he wheels us onto the main road.
On the ride back, my mind spins with different scenarios. Somehow, someone found the knife. Illogical, but my guilt is working overtime, and I can’t shut it down.
By the time we pull into the back lot of The Tropics, my stomach is in knots, and my back is sore from rigid tension theentire ride. So unlike the other times when I savored the ride and everything about it.
Bolt parks the bike, waits until I dismount, then he gets off, pockets his keys and heads for the back door. His silence is unnerving.
