Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,123

of color bloom on her cheeks. I, unlike him, am not oblivious to her crush. “I can’t wait to see how it turns out. See you at the party tonight.”

Without waiting for her response he returns to the guide who has the helmets for him.

“Come on, Bris,” he yells, swinging his leg over the ATV.

“See you tonight,” I tell Meryl hastily as I go to join him.

The guide gives us some quick instructions. Grip nods, but it’s obvious he’s only half-listening. He and Rhyson love these things. The prospect of riding one on the Red Dunes has him excited and impatient to get on with it.

I climb on the back, not sure about this. Not sure why he asked or why I’m going. I slip my arms around his warm, hard body. My fingers brush against ladders of muscle peekabooing through the rips in his shirt. I jerk my fingers back, unprepared for the jolt the intimate touch sends through me.

“Hold on,” Grip says, his voice a little muffled by the helmet. “Or fall off. Those are your options.”

Riding wrapped around that hot, hard body, my thighs bracketing the power of his? The center of my body fitted to the curve of his ass? And the primal growl of this desert beast carrying us over the sand, vibrating beneath me for the duration of the ride? As horny as I am, I’ll come before the ride is over. Not a good look. Using the electric boyfriend in my suitcase would be less mortifying.

“Another option would be not to ride at all.” I scoot back and lift my leg to get off.

“Too late.”

Before I can get any further, Grip revs the engine and takes off.

I’m forced to hold onto him tightly or get dragged by one leg. “Motherfucker,” I mutter through my helmet.

“What was that?” Grip shouts over the engine.

“I said you could have warned me,” I scream back.

I’ve seen Rhyson and Grip ride at the beach, but this is so far beyond that. The dunes climb so high and drop so low, making my stomach loop with each crest and valley. No matter how much I try to put some distance between our bodies, the motion of the vehicle, the speed of our ride pulls me inexorably into him. My breasts flatten against the wide, solid expanse of his back and shoulders. His muscles shift and flex beneath my arms with every rise, fall, twist and turn. Involuntarily, my limbs stiffen as I fight the pull toward his body, not just gravitational, but the sensual tug he always exercises on my senses.

“Relax, Bristol,” Grip shouts over his shoulder. “Or you’ll take us both down.”

I give in, allowing the force and speed to collide our bodies. My legs mold to him, my nipples pebble at his back. I know I’m wet, and him securing my arm tighter around his waist with a rough hand doesn’t help. To distract myself, I take in the scenery rushing past us. We soar over this mountain of scarlet sand, so high if I reached up to touch the azure sky, my palms might come away blue. The sun, high and saffron, splashes violet and pink through the clouds, a child playing with watercolors. Vivid color saturates the landscape, like a fresco stretched and painted, left out to dry in the sun.

We stop at the pinnacle of a dune, and just sit there for a few moments, the quad an idling beast beneath us. Grip kills the engine, swinging one leg over to get off. I carefully follow suit.

I steal a glance at Grip, who has walked a few feet away and surveys the same vibrant vista that captivated me during our ride, the helmet hanging from his hand. I take a few steps until I’m right in front of him, ready to ask what we’re doing out here and why he brought me if he has nothing to say. The guide gave him a black bandana to wear over his nose and mouth, protection from the sand flying from our wheels. With just his dark eyes and the slashing, inky brows visible above the bandana, he looks part outlaw, part Bedouin prince. He stows the helmet and pulls the bandana beneath his chin, revealing the rest of his face, the lips finely chiseled and full, the strong, square chin. He squints against the sun, his bold profile sketched into the horizon behind him, and my heart performs a perfect ten somersault.

It’s so quiet, the air