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some
guns on him too. The man works out and can kick some serious ass. Dillon was a
grade A tough guy; yet, Luke handled him like he was a child; no contest. That,
of course, begs the question, what exactly did Luke do in Afghanistan? She has
the idea that he was not just some run of the mill soldier. In fact, when it
came to Special Forces, he's probably not an average Special Forces guy either…
Then she notices the hash marks on his arm.
    Luke catches her
studying him. “You wondering what these are for, huh?” he asks, pointing to the
strange marks.
    She nods, not
trusting herself to speak.
    “That’s more like
a first…no, a second date conversation; sorry.”
    “What? You’re
assuming that you’ll even get a first date with me. What mak—"
    “You’ll date me.
You can’t stand the fact that I won’t tell you what they mean. You’ll date me
if for no other reason than to satisfy your curiosity,” he says with a smug
smile on his face.
    “You—how can…I
mean…,” Kayla fumes and sputters, unable to come up with anything fiery to say
in return. His self- confidence both infuriates her and makes her desire him
even more. Finally, she shoves her half-empty plate away from herself and digs
around in her purse for money. She pulls out a ten and plops it on the table
along with a couple ones. She stands up and Luke follows suit. He grabs his
Jacket and steps out of the booth.
    “Ready to go for a
ride?”
    “Fine,” she snaps
without even thinking. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Luke’s Harley is
amazing. It’s a solid black 2008 Dyna Wide Glide with raked-out wide-stance
front forks, giving it a stretched-out chopper feel from the ape hangers to the
bobbed rear fender, no mufflers, and just straight pipes. Portrayed on the side
of the tank is the Suicide Kings mad hatter complete with the 9mm barrel in the
open mouth. Nothing shouts crazy like a suicidal mad hatter! As Kayla positions
herself behind Luke, he fires up his machine. She loves the feel and sound of
the bike’s loud throaty rumble as Luke revs the throttle. He hands Kayla a
glossy black full-face helmet and in turn shoves a flat, black, old-school
helmet on his own head. He skips the strap, pops the clutch and they’re off
with a roar.
    It has been a long
time since she last got on a bike. She never trusted Dillon and always felt he
was just a hair away from a fatal accident and that, of course, was a constant
bone of contention between them. Luke’s bike might scream power crazed mal
content, but his actions speak differently; at least as far as she has been
able to tell. She should not have been surprised when the final destination of
their little ride just happened to be his house.
    Luke owns a very
old two-story Victorian on the edge of the Berkeley Oakland border. It’s sort
of mustard yellow with a brown trim. The yard needs landscaping, but it’s still
in decent shape. She’s even more surprised to find it halfway clean. Not the
image she had of a biker’s house and nothing like the atrocious apartment
Dillon lives in.
    Kayla takes a seat
on a comfortable, black leather couch and accepts a glass of ice water. They
attempt a civil conversation for a while. Finally, Luke sets his glass down on
the coffee table and moves in to take what he came for; sex. Luke’s abrupt,
forward behavior doesn’t rattle Kayla in the least, being familiar with most
bikers’ typical manners.
    His mouth finds
hers; their hands pull and tear at buttons, zippers, bra strap, and belts.
Clothes fall where they may, and naked bodies come together like a couple of
powerful magnets. Luke is as aggressive as he is skilled and knows his way
around a woman’s body, and for some reason, especially hers. He reads her signs
of passion, hints of desire, and in seconds her motor is purring.
    He takes her, but
not before she’s ready. Kayla cries out in passion as he enters and soon his
moans of pleasure mix with hers, mouths glued together like two wild