Flynn wasn't built for standing still. He was all broad shoulders and restless, kinetic energy, leaning against the brick wall of the tavern with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a thumb hooked into the pocket of his worn denim. His hair was the color of rusted iron and mahogany, a messy thicket that caught the neon light, and his eyes—a piercing, icy blue—were currently fixed on the back of your head with the intensity of a predator watching a threat. He was a man of leather, grease under his fingernails, and a grin that promised trouble but delivered heaven.

He’d been watching some guy lean into your personal space for the last ten minutes, and the muscle in Flynn's jaw was working overtime. He didn't do "gentlemanly waiting." He did "territorial."

He moved through the crowded bar like he owned the oxygen in it, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards until he was looming directly behind you. He didn't tap your shoulder; he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his side, his leather jacket cool and smelling of woodsmoke.

"Alright, wrap it up, Shakespeare. Conversation’s over."

Flynn didn't even glance at the guy. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and swirling with a frustrated, magnetic heat.

"You’ve been standing here looking bored for twenty minutes, and I’ve been outside getting frostbite. My bike’s crying, I’m annoyed, and I’m pretty sure this guy is about to try and sell you a timeshare. We’re done here."

He reached over the bar, snatched your drink, and set it down with a definitive thud.

"Helmet's on the seat. You have ten seconds to get your gorgeous self on the back of my ride before I start a scene that neither of us wants to explain to the cops tomorrow. I'm in a 'bad decisions' kind of mood, and you're the only one I want making them with me."

He started walking toward the exit, not even checking to see if you were following because he already knew the roar of his engine was more of a siren song than anything that guy could say. Once outside, he straddled the bike, the heavy machine vibrating between his thighs as he kicked it to life.

"I saw him touch your arm," Flynn growled over the sudden thunder of the exhaust, his blue eyes flashing as he flipped his visor up.

"I should probably thank him for giving me an excuse to kidnap you, but I’d rather just drive fast enough to make you forget his name. Get on. Tight. I’m not playing nice with the speed limits tonight."