“About what happened last night . . .” Patrick said.

“We’re handling it.”

“I hope so, because it’s a problem, one that suggests the Gallagher boy might not be the only Cwn Annwn trespassing in Cainsville.”

Ida said nothing. They all went silent. Last night was, quite possibly, the first time in decades that Patrick wished he’d been part of the inner circle, just to see their reactions to the news. One of their special children found murdered. In Cainsville, no less. While he doubted the girl had actually been killed here, the fact remained that someone had murdered Ciara Conway and put her body in the Carew house. It was a message. About Olivia. One they did not wish to receive.

“We’ll solve that,” Ida said. “You handle this.” She waved in the direction Olivia had gone. “Whatever is wrong between her and Gabriel, fix it. Now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

When Ricky passed the town limits and hit the gas, I found the rush I’d been looking for all my life. My earliest memories of life with Pamela and Todd Larsen? Me on a swing, Todd pushing me. Me in his arms as he swung me. Faster, higher, the air whooshing past like hits of pure oxygen. My first taste of a drug I’d never forget. No merry-go-rounds for me. I wanted roller coasters. I wanted go-carts and snow sleds. Faster. Higher. I remember my dad taking me out in the Spyder, and even before I was old enough to drive, he’d hand me the keys on a lonely stretch of road just like this, letting me take the wheel and go. Just go.

The wind whipping over my bare arms and legs was the most delicious burn imaginable, something I’d never gotten in a convertible, even with the top down. I could feel the motorcycle, too, in a way I never felt a car, no matter how perfectly the engine roared and rumbled. This rumble went right through me, vibrating against my bare thighs and, yes, everyplace else that vibration feels so damned good, making me really glad I hadn’t put on a pair of jeans.

Leaning against Ricky’s back, my legs wrapped around his hips, the burn of the wind and the rumble of the bike . . . It was a rush—an erotic blood rush, head rush, oh-my-God-this-is-amazing rush. I won’t say it was better than sex, but I’ve had some that didn’t live up to this.

It’s not surprising, then, that as we rode, me leaning against him, legs wrapped around him, my fingers slid higher and crept inward, until my hands were wrapped around his inner thighs. When I realized that, I pulled back to a more appropriate hold. He slowed for a turn and stopped the bike, took my hands and put them where they’d been, twisting to look at me and mouthing, “Okay?”

I nudged open the visor. “I don’t want to distract you.”

“I don’t get distracted. I get focused.”

I rubbed the insides of his thighs and his lips parted, lust shimmering in his dark eyes. He pulled off my helmet and kissed me. It wasn’t an easy angle, and the awkward, hungry kiss felt like teasing.

“You want to get off?” he whispered.

“Eventually.”

He laughed, abrupt with surprise and ragged with desire. “Hell, yeah. The bike, I meant. Do you want me to stop?”

“Not yet.”

I kissed him, our lips half meeting, tongues brushing, teeth clicking as we struggled for that elusive connection, the frustration of not finding it only raising the heat.

“I want more,” I said.

He chuckled. “That’s the idea.”

“The bike, I mean. Faster.” My fingers moved to his crotch, rock-hard under his jeans. “Yes?”

“Shit, yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.

I pulled my hand away. “I shouldn’t while you’re driving . . .”

“You should.” He put my hand back where it had been. “You absolutely should.”

He kissed me again, and I started to think that getting off—the bike and otherwise—right away wasn’t such a bad plan. When he went to put my helmet back on, I stopped him.

“I’d like to leave it off,” I said.

He hesitated.

“Please.” I moved against him. “I want to feel it.”

“You really want to feel it?” He leaned back and whispered a suggestion in my ear.

I pulled my leg up, turning sideways on the bike. Then I slid off my panties. I was going to stuff them into my pocket, but he took them and put them in the saddlebag. He took something from the bag as well—a condom. He lifted it, a question and a clear signal of where he figured this was heading. I nodded, and he pushed it down into his pocket.

I swung my leg back over the bike, hiked up my skirt, wrapped my legs around him, and put my hands back where they’d been. He pushed off.

If the earlier ride had been better than a few sexual encounters I’d had, the one I got now beat most of them. It was incredible, hair blowing, wind wailing past my ears, skirt hiked up around my hips, sitting bare-assed on the seat, the bike buzzing and rumbling under me, my hands on Ricky’s crotch, rubbing him.

He wasn’t lying when he said distraction only made him more focused. It was as if the bike itself responded, sailing over hills and around curves with a perfection of speed and motion that was beyond exhilarating. Beyond exciting. I leaned against his back and felt him under my fingers and the bike rumbling under me and . . . I came. On the back of a bike. A completely unexpected, amazing orgasm that kept going until, the next thing I knew, Ricky was veering off onto a dirt trail into a patch of woods, hitting the brakes before the bike was even safely hidden by the trees, and then he was pulling me off the bike with a hoarse “Yes?” and the second I said yes in return, I swear he had the condom on and was inside me, before we even hit the ground.

I was still orgasming from the bike when the fresh waves hit, so intense I didn’t care where we were, didn’t even know if I was horizontal yet, only cared that it kept going. And it did, just long enough to leave me lying on the grass, panting, eyes rolling in ecstasy, with Ricky poised over me, whispering, “Shit, holy shit,” until we both caught our breath and he laughed, a little awkwardly, as if embarrassed. “That was, uh, not quite as finessed as I’d hoped. Sorry. I got carried away.”

“Oh, I like carried away. I was already there, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Yeah, that was . . . Holy shit.” His cheeks colored. “I’ll stop saying that. I sound like a sixteen-year-old after his first time.”