Rumination
When we’re stopped in front of the garage, Channing releases me to drop my laptop and grab the other helmet. It takes only a few seconds to exchange the two, then I’m clambering onto the motorcycle in front of him again. Since I don’t do it, he connects the Bluetooth audio himself, then finishes fastening his chinstrap. “Are you driving? Or am I?” he asks through the helmet. Too raw with emotion to answer verbally, I lower my hands, resting them on his muscular thighs. “Okay. Hold onto me, babydoll.” He waits until I tuck my arms further behind, looping my fingers through his beltloops on either side of his narrow waist. Then he leans over me. Gunning the engine, he keeps a foot down on one side and spins the motorcycle one-hundred-eighty degrees, then we’re off like a shot through
- Writer
