Jane Linfoot - High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

‘So how did you get into cycling?’ Suddenly reluctant for the evening to finish, she threw Jackson a carefully chosen, open-ended question.

‘I’ve been at it for as long as I remember. When we showed some promise as lads, our dad seized on that, more for himself than for us. He got his kicks from our success, and he drove us pretty relentlessly.’ He gave a pensive shrug. ‘My old man’s a bit of a fucked-up guy, I’m afraid.’

She assumed that last excuse had to be in response to her appalled expression. ‘But didn’t it make you want to rebel?’

Was a dad who was fucked-up and alive better or worse than one like hers, who’d broken her heart when he left, then died?

‘My dad’s regime didn’t allow questions, let alone rebellion. His methods were harsh, but I guess we came through in the end. By the time we were old enough to stand up to him, we were hooked on winning. Signing up to a pro team was the fast way out, and I went when I was eighteen. Other young riders found the team life a shock, with the hard training, the discipline and being away from home, but for me it was like a holiday camp after my dad.’

‘It all sounds rough.’ Poor Jackson. Who’d have thought he’d had such a bad time. It made what she’d always thought of as her own raw deal seem easy.

‘It toughened me up, made me what I am, and to be honest I don’t often talk about it.’ He gave a sigh and moved towards the open French doors. ‘Coming out to see the moonshine on the sea?’ A casual invitation, flipped over his shoulder as he sidled out, moving the conversation to somewhere safer for him, but less safe for her.

What a corny line! But innocuous all the same. They were both adults here; they both knew the score. Any moves that were going to happen would have been made hours ago. Since she laid down the unspoken rules, he’d backed right off, and now she’d got her own rampant woman back in the box, she was well out of the danger zone. Easing herself off the sofa, she padded across the polished boards. One last glimpse of the clouds scudding across the night sky before she went to bed slotted neatly into the low-risk category. Good-girl Bryony could manage that.

‘It’s breezy out here.’ Keeping it light, the wind snatching her hair as she stepped into the small courtyard. ‘And so bright. Amazing how the moon splashes across the water.’ She moved across to where Jackson was leaning on the waist-high wall, scanning the horizon, t-shirt flapping.

‘Hey, look.’ She stooped to examine something moving on the ground at the edge of the planted area. ‘I thought it was a leaf, but it’s a frog.’

Two seconds, and Jackson was crouching beside her, hunky shoulder uncomfortably close to her cheek, extending a finger towards the ground. ‘Ahhh, it’s a toad.’

Trust Mr. Know-it-all.

‘There’s a difference?’

‘Toads have more warty skin – and they don’t hop, they crawl, although technically they’re all frogs.’ He tickled the top of its head gently with a leaf as it moved to take cover under a stone. ‘We used to spend all summer collecting them on holidays in Cornwall when we were kids – when we weren’t cycling that was.’

‘Typical boy.’ Smiling, she gave a shrug, ‘Toad, frog, whatever, he’s pretty.’

Jackson let out a snort. ‘Typical contrarian woman. A frog and a prince to choose between, and you hone in on the damned frog.’

Laughing, she stood up, moving to take a last look at the sea over the wall.

‘Not big-headed at all then, putting yourself in the prince category?’

‘Prince of darkness maybe?’ He raised his eyebrows, voice husky, sending prickles down her spine as he came to stand behind her. Not touching, but close enough for her to breathe in the scent of clean male, to sense the shadow of his warmth on her back. ‘Cold?’ His breath brushing her neck sent a skitter through her body.

‘No.’

So close, she should be legging it. Except her legs were frozen, and nothing to do with the temperature. If she dragged her arms tight around her ribs she might get the juddering under control.

‘Your teeth are chattering.’ Not much of a warning from him, but the only one she got. Then the breath left her body as he folded his arms around her. ‘I’ll warm you up.’

Noooooooooooo. Bracing herself to protest. Too late.

Or, how about yes? The sensuous slide of skin on skin as his muscled arms closed over hers… Reason flew out the window, and lust won hands down. She leaned into him, and as his lips traced an exploratory path below her ear, a silver avalanche began at her scalp, and tumbled over every inch of her skin to her toes.

‘Jackson.’ Standing rigid, she braced herself against the onslaught. Delicious, compelling. Wanting this frozen moment to last forever. And then his hands were strong on her shoulders, as he spun her to face him. One graze of stubble on her upper-lip and his mouth landed on hers like a heat-seeking missile, turning her legs to molten syrup with the taste of him. She sagged against him as he whipped the oxygen out of her. Sweet. Achingly sweet. Peaches and cream, raspberry cupcakes, white-chocolate cheesecake. Feeding her the sugar-rush of her life, all wrapped up with the power of pure, unadulterated man.

The out-of-control brunt of his erection crushing up against her stomach, making the need pool between her legs. The aching pleasure of those strong male fingers as he slid his hand inside her top, and scraped his nails across her back. Dying as he moved around the front and teased a nail across her breast, then pulling down her bra cup, still kissing her as if his life depended on it, groaning his pleasure deep into her throat. Her knees sinking as he toyed with her nipple. Then, with his hand on her back, her bra clip twanged, and she gasped for air as he broke from the kiss. One yank and her t-shirt was up. She gave a small cry as his mouth landed on her nipple, shooting sharp judders of pleasure through her as his tongue tangled, sucking and circling, sending her cross-eyed, as his fingers deftly worked her other side.

‘O my.’ Back against the wall, lifting her leg, locking it over his hip, so she could thrust her pelvis and grind the heart of her pulsing wetness against the throbbing head of his erection. Meeting its heat through the fabric, every nudge forging a rocket of desire deep into her core. Searching, sliding her hand down the rock-hard muscle of his stomach, past the edge of his slouch pants, hearing him moan again as her hand closed around the length of his shaft.

Hot skin. Grappling with the elastic, tugging down his pants, and the dusky smell of male rising as she freed him. Closing her hand around his length, sliding up and down the hugeness of it, panting, aching for the whole beautiful rock-hard length of it.

‘Can’t wait.’ Her mumbling was urgent. ‘I need you. Now.’

Jackson, bleary, lifting his head. ‘Here? Sure?’

Running her hand over the slippery arc, finding the tip, already sticky, a primeval force within her driving her to take what she had to have. ‘Now Jackson.’

With one lift he’d swung her hips round to rest on the terrace table, a tug and he’d whipped down her sweat pants, flung her thong to who knows where.

‘Protection.’ A grunt, a fumble in his pocket, then he’d ripped the foil and rolled on, torn off his tee.

Bending her knees up, leaning back, feeling her eyes widen as she took in the size of him. Muscles shining in the shadows, and the massive thrust of his erection reaching for the sky.

Slick and wet and desperate to suck him inside her. He waited, just a second, a smile playing around his lips as he registered the ache in her. She lay back, shuddering, knowing that one touch was going to send her to heaven. Then she felt the glorious nudge of the tip of him. An inch was all it took. Pulsing on her, rocking into her, pushing her over the cliff edge, and she exploded around him, her whole body erupting in a volcano, pleasure throbbing and resonating through her.