Fuck me.
I let out a frustrated sigh and grab the helmet dangling from his fingers. I pull it over my head before stepping up to the side of my bike and laying my hand over Cruz’s large shoulder. Using him for balance, I slide my leg over the seat and get comfortable behind him, hating just how close I have to sit to him, but if I’m being honest, a wicked part of me doesn’t hate it at all. My hands slide around his tight waist and without warning, he hits the throttle and takes off down the street.
It takes me no time at all to realize that the fucker isn’t taking me home.
“Where are you taking me?” I call over the rumble of the bike and am instantly ignored.
I have two choices here. I can either duck and roll off the back of this thing, hoping to whoever exists above that I don’t fuck something up and kill myself in the process, or I can wait and see where he’s taking me, and for some reason, I’m far too intrigued for my own good.
Cruz flies through the city, showing that he has absolutely no reservations when it comes to his riding abilities. He handles my Ducati like a pro, making me wonder if he has a bike of his own. I wouldn’t be surprised.
Within the space of two minutes, Cruz is coming out of the city and heading back toward the richy-rich area that I only just walked out of, rendering my morning walk a complete waste. He rides through the streets, being obnoxiously loud about the engine, but I suppose it doesn’t matter seeing as though it’s well past the crack of dawn now.
Cruz passes through the streets until he comes to a secluded area, one I haven’t ridden past before. There’s a private road and I watch with a keen eye as he stops at the top and is made to enter a code to gain access.
“What is this?” I ask, taking note of how the road is positioned so that random people can’t just accidentally stumble past and let themselves in. “Some kind of gated community?”
A small scoff bubbles up his throat but he doesn’t give me any answers as the gate slides back, allowing us in. Before I can get what I’m looking for, he hits the throttle and sends us soaring down the private road.
The houses down here are immaculate. I’ve never seen anything like them. The road is long and windy and screams of privilege. These houses aren’t just mansions, they’re fucking castles fit for royalty.
Okay, so castle is probably stretching it, but what other word is there to describe this monstrosity? I’ve never seen homes like this before. It’s literally like a scene out of a ridiculously expensive movie, one that I most likely have never seen before and probably never will.
Each home has a massive iron gate, and as Cruz rides right down to the bottom of the cul-de-sac, he passes at least twenty houses—including one with a very familiar black Escalade parked right out front. But it’s the house at the end that catches my attention. It’s beyond perfect, standing proud and demanding respect.
It’s simply beautiful.
“Is this your home?” I ask, looking through the big iron gate at the stunning white pillars that stretch across the front of the property like some kind of manor. There’s a huge water fountain in the center of a magnificent circle driveway, and it looks as though this place has been looked after by only the best grounds men that money can buy. It’s the kind of property you’d see splashed across the front of a bridal venue magazine.
Cruz’s family must have some pretty epic housekeepers and gardeners they keep on staff because even the hedges have been manicured like nobody’s business. I can’t even begin to fathom the kind of money a property like this would cost to maintain.
Cruz just grunts as the gate opens wide and I resist rolling my eyes. Why is it so hard for males to string one single sentence together? Come on, is it really that hard? I guess no matter where you go, men are always the same.
He revs the engine and we start riding down the massive driveway and I can’t help but wonder if he’s going slowly out of respect for his home or if he just wants to give me a second to take it all in. Either way, I appreciate it.
We finally reach the top of the driveway, and as he brings the bike to a stop in front of the massive grand entrance of the home, I look up at it in awe. It looks so much bigger from here.
Cruz cuts the engine and slides off the Ducati as though he’s done it a million times before. He starts walking toward the staircase and gets at least ten feet before stopping and looking back at me sitting alone on the back of my bike. “Are you coming?” he grumbles as I peel off my helmet.