Free The Girl Who Wasn't by Heather Hildenbrand Page B

pavement is rushing by and
the wind is flapping the edges of my dress and I no longer care how
tightly I should be holding on. I curl my shoulders forward so that
my chest is curved to his back.
    Brisk wind blows over my
legs, turning sharper as we accelerate, but the cold doesn’t
register over the thrill of it. I want to go faster. Linc weaves in
and out of traffic, and every turn pulls me closer to his
back.
    A dog runs out ahead of us.
Linc swerves to avoid the animal, and I scream. Linc moves his left
hand to my thigh, wordlessly assuring me that he’s done this a
thousand times. When his hand doesn't leave my skin, any chill I
felt vanishes.
    Suddenly, I’m hot, warmed
from the inside out. My face flushes inside my helmet. A wave of
heat threads its way through me, ending between my legs in a slow
burn.  
    The speed is exhilarating. The fear and
excitement are almost too big to feel at the same time. Adrenaline
pumps into me, making room for both. Behind the anonymity of my
helmet, I am grinning. I cannot stop. I have the urge to throw my
hands out and lean my head back and let the wind roll over me in a
moment of perfect ecstasy. Then we hit a bend in the road, and
Linc’s hand moves back to the handlebars. I feel him leaning and
think better of letting go. I lean with him, matching my shoulder
dip to his. The motorcycle tips effortlessly and then rights itself
again as the road straightens. It’s pure magic.
    The speedometer tips eighty and I’m not
sure I wouldn’t blow away if I let go. It’s a thrill; death is
rushing by me six inches from my toes with nothing separating me
from it except my grip on Linc’s midsection. I tighten my arms and
grin wider.
    The turns are scariest, the way we lean
and the speeds with which we take them. Each time, we come closer
to getting parallel with the pavement. It’s thrilling and
terrifying all at once. I squeeze Linc’s ribs, giving away the
delicious anxiety that grips me so hard I’m gasping in my helmet. I
don’t think he can hear my intake of breath or little cries of
panic, but I’m not certain.
    Ahead of us, open road
stretches, and Linc’s hand wanders back to my thigh. I try to
understand his reason because I know he wouldn’t touch me without
one. But he rests it there almost lazily, his fingertips dancing
with the wind over my skin. Goose bumps rise from my hip to ankle.
I shiver.
    The heat returns, snaking a
trail as it curls toward my stomach. It settles in a tight ball
beneath my belly button. My skin feels pulled tight against my
muscles. Something—I don’t know what—desperately wants to be
released.
    I shift on the narrow seat,
doing all I can to shut it out, but the motion only serves to
agitate the storm inside me. My body likes the friction of my
movements, but I pause, waiting to see if Linc notices. He doesn’t
move, nor does he remove his hand from my leg.
    He is undoubtedly completely
unaware of what he is doing to me.
    And I don't want him to
stop.
    I imagine his hands on my
legs with no fabric to deter their wandering. I imagine him pulling
to the side of the road, dismounting. Swinging my legs around so
they’re wrapped around his waist instead of this narrow seat. His
fingers drifting higher up the inside of my thigh, underneath the
thin fabric of my panties. Slowly sliding his finger into the wet
heat he’d find there.
    I am flushed with a familiar
feeling as I remember the stolen moments in Twig City when I would
run my hands over my body while the rest of them slept. But never
to this extent. Never with this sort of torment.
    My hands around his
midsection tighten. I want badly to run my gloved hands over the
planes of his chest but I don’t dare give myself away. Not when I’m
so close to … something.
    Linc downshifts to pause at
an empty intersection and the motorcycle bucks beneath me. The
vibrations from the engine send tingles between my thighs and make
my legs quiver. Linc's hand still rests on my thigh. I ache as