Impossibly (Dante’s Nine MC #1)(20)
Author: Colleen Masters

“Why, because otherwise it would be a pathetic sausage fest?” Kelly laughs.

“I think we’ll pass,” I tell Stephen, “You guys have fun.”

“What, you got somewhere better to be?” he challenges me.

“Yes, she does,” says a full-bodied voice from over my shoulder.

I spin around and feel my heart lodge itself in my throat. Towering over the whole herd of graduate students is Declan Tiberi himself. He cocks an eyebrow at the cowering Stephen, and shoots me a confident smile.

“Hey Kassenia,” he says casually.

“Hey…Declan,” I reply, trying to play it cool.

“I figured I’d swing by myself and give you a lift,” he says, nodding toward the parking lot. His Harley stands there in all its glory, ready to whisk me away.

“We’re taking your bike? Now?” I stammer, looking up at him with wild eyes.

“Unless you had other plans,” he says, looking disdainfully around at my simpering male classmates once more.

“She doesn’t have any other plans,” Kelly says quickly, giving me a short hug and pushing me toward Declan.

“What about my bags?” I stammer, looking up at him with wild eyes.

“Already taken care of,” he winks at Kelly and smiles, laying a strong, broad hand on my shoulder, “Let’s hit the road, shall we?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I hope you didn’t mind me cutting in back there,” Declan says, as we make our way toward his bike. “A couple of those guys seemed pretty sad to see you go.”

“Not at all,” I tell him, “Though I’m pretty sure you were personally responsible for about twelve guys simultaneously pissing their pants.”

“I’m sure they’ll be able to brave some shitty sports bar without dragging you along for the ride. They’ll live,” he laughs.

But will I? I think to myself as we stop before Declan’s Harley. I’ve never actually been this close to a motorcycle before. Where I’m from, the only people who rode bikes were fifty-year-old douche bags going through their midlife crises. And then, they’d only take their new rides out for an unimpressive spin or two before calling it quits. This huge, powerful machine of Declan’s intimidates me, much as I hate to admit it. But I guess that makes sense. The man himself rather intimidates me as well.

“What are you wearing under that robe?” Declan asks, reaching for his helmet. “Hopefully nothing that can’t get a little dirty.”

A little spark of excitement goes off in my stomach. This man has a way of making everything sound like bedroom talk. Or maybe it’s just my willing mind that’s twisting his words? I shrug out of my graduation robe, revealing a simple getup of boyfriend jeans and a low-cut striped tee with ankle boots. Declan raises an eyebrow at me.

“Don’t people usually dress up for these graduation things?” he asks.

“I don’t really have anyone to dress up for,” I tell him, “I figured if I was going to sit through that bullshit ceremony, I may as well be comfortable.”

“You’re my kinda girl, Kassenia,” he says, handing me a helmet.

“Ditto, Mr. Tiberi,” I smile, taking the heavy head ware in my hands.

“Mr. Tiberi…” he says, tasting the title as it rolls around his mouth, “I kind of like it. But ‘Declan’ is just fine.”

“In that case,” I tell him, “You can just call me Kassie. If you like.”

“Kassie,” he smiles, “Gorgeous name.”

I wonder if he has any idea how significant it is, me letting him use my nickname. The only people who call me Kassie are my closest friends. And by that, I really only mean Kelly—and Rosie, once upon a time. Even my parents refused to shorten my full name when they were alive. Maybe I’m giving my nickname to Declan because some part of me trusts him implicitly. Or maybe I’m just hoping that I can trust him as much as I want to.

“Shall we?” Declan asks, swinging himself up onto the bike.

I glance nervously over my shoulder and see that Kelly and my classmates are still looking on. She gives me an excited, encouraging nod from the curb. Try as I might, I can’t seem to tame the brigade of butterflies that are having a field day in my stomach.

“I, uh, have a confession to make,” I say to Declan, “I’ve never actually…been on a motorbike before.”

“Seriously?” he asks, looking back at me through his sun glasses, “Never?”

“I didn’t exactly grow up as a biker chick,” I tell him.

“Well, first of all, never say ‘motorbike’ again,” he laughs, patting the seat behind him, “Hop on, Kassie. I promise I’ll take good care of you. All you’ve got to do is hold on tight. Lady friends call this baby the eight-hundred pound vibrator.”

I can’t help but laugh nervously at his levity, although I’m not certain if he’s joking. I force a deep breath into my lungs. You can do this, I coach myself. I shake my long blonde hair out of its ponytail and slip the surprisingly un-hideous helmet over my head. I strap it on tight, as if falling off the back of this death machine would be worth living through in the first place; but it’s time to live a little. I swing my leg up over the Harley as if I were back at my childhood horseback riding lessons. All at once, Declan’s body is inches away from my own. Images from my insane sex dreams flood my mind as I find myself so close to him.

“Wrap your arms around my waist,” he says, a sure smile spread across his lips. “You’re going to enjoy this, trust me.”

The bike hums below us as I encircle Declan’s tapered torso with trembling arms. My hands glance against his perfectly cut abs, each one defined and strong. Jesus—what is that, an eight pack? I didn’t even know that was possible. I try not to let my jaw hang open as I feel his strong body for the first time. I’ve certainly never been around such an…impressive man in my entire life. He smells of leather and sweat, and of a peculiar smell that that completely disarms me and makes me feel suddenly at ease…it can only be described as "manly".

“You can get closer,” he tells me with a laugh, “I promise I won’t bite. Not unless you ask me to, that is.”

There’s an idea, I think to myself, thrilling at his words.

I sidle up against Declan’s broad, muscular back. My breasts pressed tightly against his body, billowing up before me as I lay my cheek on his black leather cut. My body covers the Dante’s Nine logo that’s scrawled across his back as I hold onto him for dear life. I tighten my grip on his firm, hard torso and squeeze my eyes closed. This is it. I’m sure he can feel my heart beating like a hammer in my chest as he revs the Harley’s powerful engine.