Jane Linfoot - High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

If she was hoping that would make his eyes widen, then she was in luck; but more strangely still, it appeared to have been a throwaway line. Eyes wider still at that thought. And a fellow survivor of a broken family too. He covered his surprise by blurting out the first thing about families that came into his head.

‘I wouldn’t know, I only have brothers.’ A neat line that no way expressed the train wreck that was his family life, or the screwed up state of relationships with his father and brothers and as they stood now. Connor, a golden boy, who hadn’t screwed up when it mattered like he had, who’d been snapping at his heels his whole life, who was still out there now, feeding their father’s insatiable hunger for glory, providing him with the reflected limelight he loved. And Nic, a self-made success. As for his mother, well don’t even go there. Who the hell started talking about families? ‘Connor’s a famous cyclist. You’ll no doubt have heard of him.’ The wind whipped away the bitter laugh he spat out with that last comment.

‘Or maybe not.’ She shot him a shamefaced grin. ‘I don’t know the first thing about cycling, I was blagging it this morning. The last time I went on a bike I was about six.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Anything was better than discussing the Gale clan. Suppressing his mirth at her embarrassed discomfort, he gave her a shoulder nudge as he polished his next spinner. ‘But bike-riding’s like sex. Once you’ve learned how to do it, you don’t forget.’

Only her eyebrows shooting up showed he’d surprised her. One-all in the surprise stakes then.

‘ So like a man to make that link. Or are you simply living up to your perennial reputation as a womanizer?’ Tossing back her head, she let out a laugh. ‘I read the biography, you know. What’s your next line? Asking me if my favourite cocktail is “Sex on the beach?”’

‘Let me think. Slimy rocks, the sea approaching… I don’t think so.’ He jumped to avoid the bubbles of tide running up the sand and steered her up the beach a little. ‘Later maybe?’

And joking. Obviously.

‘Dream on, Mister. I gave up on casual sex years ago because it was meaningless and empty, so I learned to say “No”. Maybe you could learn that too.’ She gave a shrug, but posted him a mischievous sideways glance. ‘One tiny word, but it’s powerful.’

And maybe she had a point. If the faceless sex was so great, how come he’d hardly missed it when he called a halt? Until today, of course, when his groin had been jumping like a jack-in-a box. Still was. Put it down to the adrenalin surge of a win, or more likely, the Cherry Bomb at his side and her explosive promise, which strangely hadn’t lessened any since she swapped her silky pink wrapper for leggings and padded jacket. Still that same bewitching scent, screamingly strong, regardless of the salty, biting air.

‘So I take it you’re not propositioning me, then?’ No idea why he needed to push it, but he did.

Now it was her turn to jump as the surf rushed towards her toes. ‘We’ve already established that.’

A few more hand-in-pocket strides at his side, this human dynamo was walking so fast he could barely keep up, despite her precipitous heels.

She glanced back at him. ‘To be honest I’m so far out of the couples game, my mother has offered to pay to freeze my eggs.’

Conversation stopper or what? Though judging by the way she was chewing her lip and furrowing her brow, she’d shocked herself as much as him with that one. Laying it on the line. Making it clear, her hurling herself at him wasn’t going to happen.

Leaving the first move down to him. When had he ever had to make the first move? Though that wasn’t really happening either, even if he had taken every precaution to keep the press off his tail.

‘So what do you do if you don’t date? Are you implying that you work all the time?’ And when did he become this big on interrogation?

She might be an organisational whizz, but what a waste of all that energy.

She smiled up at him, making the pit of his stomach fizz, making him ache to taste her. ‘A professional cyclist should understand about non-stop work better than most, from what I read.’

So she’d been reading up, had she? When did he ever ache like this? ‘Didn’t you read about the extra-curricular bits?’ Mind reverting automatically. Too bad he wasn’t going to taste.

‘There you go again. You and your one-track, extra-curricular mind.’

Grabbing her was his last intention, but he threw an easy arm around her shoulder anyway. No excuses, other than the caveman in him stepping up to stake his claim. One slight jolt from her. A strike before she organised her opposition may work to his advantage – if he didn’t move in fast enough, he suspected she may well deck him.

Easy. Spinning around, heading for her lips, he pushed away the salty strands of her hair. Her gasp of surprise drew him straight into the luscious heat of her mouth as he traced his tongue along her lip, pushed beyond those perfect teeth. Soft, delicious, sweet as raspberry muffin. And hungry too. One second of hesitation, then she came to meet him, tangling, like he knew instinctively she would, her vitality surging into him. Forging her body against his, strong and arousingly urgent as he dragged her, crushed her against his pelvis. Embracing her exuberance, and doubting he’d ever held anyone this real, this human, her energy flooding through, making him amazingly, resoundingly alive. The ache in his groin thumping as she ground her hip against the thud of his erection. Barely pausing as he tugged past the soft wool of her cardigan, through the yielding cotton of her t-shirt to the hot skin beneath. The bang of his pulse, resounding in his ears, drowning out the wind, hearing that small groan of affirmation vibrating from her throat as he cupped her heavy breast in his hand. The full perk of her nipple strong enough to jut through the padded silk.

The thunder of desire galloped through his body as he slipped down the bra-cup, lightly scratching with his nail to bring her nipple to amazing standing attention. Then, as he rolled it between his fingers, her body sagged against him and the mewing from her throat told him that he’d hit the spot. Dragging the oxygen into his lungs to cope with the double speed pounding of the blood around his body, heart rate racked off the scale by the moans of the woman leaning heavy in his arms.

‘Jackson!’ With a squawk, she yanked away from him. ‘The sea!’

The chill of water engulfed his feet as a wave rolled over his sneakers. Opening his eyes, he took a second to register the ocean fringe advancing towards them and another to decide he didn’t even give a damn. Wanting to carry on pushing the Cherry Bomb past the point of no return, until she exploded and came apart in his arms.

‘ Holy crap. We could drown here.’ His survival head coming late to the party, yanking down caveman’s ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice. In a few minutes the tide rushing into the bay would be far enough up the beach to cut off their way back. Where the hell was protective caveman? Significantly AWOL apparently, whilst pillage-caveman got his rocks off.

Grabbing her wrist, he began to run. ‘Come on, we need to get back to the cliff path. Fast.’ Dragging her along the foaming edge of the sea, staying as far away from the mud cliffs as they could. A second super-charge of adrenalin surged through his limbs now as he hauled her into the headwind across the amphitheatre of the bay. Struggling, bumping, sliding, stumbling over the rocks, soupy water up to their ankles, looking up long enough to pinpoint the place on the cliffs they were heading for, where the diagonal line of the path stretched upwards to safety.