Dangerous by Suzannah Daniels

been tough in recent years. Maybe his father had lost his job, forcing his parents to withdraw him from a pricey boarding school and put him in a public school.
    I wanted to ask him, but thought better of it. Money could be a sensitive subject for some people. I decided to change the subject entirely.
    “How long have you been riding motorcycles?”
    Stone ran his fingers through his hair, the motion accentuating his bicep as his muscle flexed with the movement.
    “I learned to ride a bicycle when I was three. I had a motorcycle by the time I was five.”
    “That young?”
    “Yeah. My mother still tells stories about how terrified she was when my father brought the first motorcycle home.”
    “I bet. It’s hard to imagine a five-year-old riding a motorcycle.”
    “It was a little, blue fifty, and I loved it. My brothers and I used to build ramps all over the yard, despite my mother’s protests.”
    “When I was five, I was still making mud pies. There was little chance that Granny and Grandpa would let me anywhere near a motorized vehicle. At least not if I was going to be the one driving.”
    “Mud pies, huh?”
    “Yep. Mud pies. They’re a lot of fun. Guaranteed to make the worst of days a little bit better.”
    “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
    We stood in silence, gazing down at the valley. A hawk circled over the town below, its long wings gliding on the breeze that rustled through the leaves above us. I pictured Stone as a small boy riding a tiny dirt bike. I grinned, knowing somehow that he was just as cocky on a motorcycle then as he was now.
    He pushed off the railing and walked toward a tall willow tree in the middle of a grassy field. He glanced over his shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”
    “What? I’m supposed to just follow you around like a hummingbird chasing a sweet drink of nectar?”
    He stopped and turned to look at me, his thumbs tucked in the front pocket of his jeans. “I’ve been compared to a lot of things, but never have I been compared to a sweet drink of nectar. I kinda like it, though.” He winked. “And to answer your question about whether you should follow me around—well, that’s what most girls do.” He turned back toward the tree, and I could hear him chuckling. He didn’t even look back to see if I was coming. Did he seriously think I was going to follow him because he expected me to?
    I stared at him as he walked farther and farther away.
    When he reached the tree, he turned to look at me and found me standing in the same position that I was when he first started walking.
    “Of course, I do love a good game of hard-to-get,” he called.
    I just stared at him, refusing to take one step toward him.
    To my surprise, he started sprinting toward me. As he neared me, I heard myself squeal, and I turned and ran. I could hear his footsteps closing in on me, and I tried to push myself to run faster. I hadn’t gotten far when he scooped me off my feet, and I found myself lying horizontally in his arms, my feet kicking and dangling in the air. I giggled breathlessly in the excitement.
    “That was much too easy,” he boasted, carrying me back toward the tree in the field.
    I squirmed to get loose, but his arms tightened their hold on me. He carried me under the willow tree, its branches brushing across us like a curtain of leaves. Once we neared the trunk, he released my feet and wrapped both arms around my torso. My body slid down his until my feet finally reached the ground. I could feel my heart hammering as it always did at his nearness.
    “Now, didn’t you say something about being thirsty?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
    “I don’t recall being thirsty.”
    “You didn’t say something about wanting a sweet drink of nectar?” he asked, his breath tickling my ear.
    I started to protest, but I found his lips on mine. Whatever words had been forming in my head, slipped away as his tongue teased my lips until I parted them. His hands skimmed up my sides