Page 36 of Razor

“Enough about me. Tell me your dark and stormy past.”

“Nothing to say.”

I cut the conversation short, and she shakes her head. “Not good enough, Razor. You must have had some kind of past. Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

“Because I have no wish to resurrect it.”

My mask is in place, and she considers me for a moment and then nods, sipping her drink, her gaze thoughtful.

My thoughts are turning to what happens next, not what happened before Sunday, and as we finish up, I say huskily, “I believe this means you are mine now, darlin’. Hang on tight; you’re in for quite a ride.”

CHAPTER 18

SUNDAY

The ride back is fast and furious, and I have never experienced exhilaration like it. Razor can definitely ride a motorcycle because despite the speed, I never once felt in danger. On the contrary, I loved every minute, and I could ride behind him for eternity and die happy.

He gives nothing away, though. What he thinks, his past, even his freaking name, and I suppose that’s what appeals to me. He is a closed book that is under lock and key, which only makes him even more interesting.

By the time we return to the Rubicon, my anticipation is boiling over because an afternoon with Razor tops any I had planned.

We park up, and as he heaves the bags from his pannier, I smile my thanks.

He walks with me to the women’s block and, leaning down, whispers, “Don’t take too long. I’ll meet you in my room.”

Fuck!

I am delirious with desire right now, and if my feet had wings, I couldn’t get to my room any quicker.

As I drop my bags on the couch, I take a deep breath because I am so excited about what lies ahead. Last night was the single-handedly best experience of my life, and I wonder if today will stoke the legend or blow it to pieces.

I quickly shower off the ride and, leaving my hair damp, I pull on a yellow summer dress, sliding my feet into a pair of sliders, brushing out my hair and tying it behind me in a pretty yellow ribbon.

It’s hardly the femme fatale vibe, but I guess Razor would prefer the sweet girl next door type, anyway.

As I head outside, I meet Annabelle heading to her room.

“Hey, Sunday. You look nice.”

“Thanks.”

She cocks her head to one side. “Fancy a coffee and a catch-up?”

“I would, but well, I, um, have plans.”

“Plans?”

She raises her eyes. “What plans?”

“Um, well–”

I’m blushing like a virgin right now and she chuckles softly. “Do your plans involve a brute wearing leather with the morals of a devil and the looks of a saint?”

“Busted.”

I can’t help giggling, and she asks, “Who is it?”

“Razor.”