It was the bike that caught his eye. A vintage Triumph Trophy in pristine condition, all sleek lines and gleaming chrome, the most gorgeous piece of kit. The sight of it, parked right outside his apartment block, stopped Nigel in his tracks as he ambled out the front door, his cigarette left dangling from his lips unlit.
When asked later, Nigel would claim he didn’t notice the rider at first because he only ever had eyes for Adam, for his Star. But the truth was, he was so in lust with the bike that it took a few moments for the shapely pair of legs straddling it to come into his awareness. When they did, though, Nigel couldn’t help the way his gaze slid up slim, denim-clad calves, to the pleasingly thick thighs that rested either side of the beautiful beast of a machine beneath them.
Nigel swallowed. He might be spoken for, and happily too, but there was nothing wrong with appreciating beauty where he found it, and the combination of this bike and that body were doing things to him he had every intention of enjoying.
He let his eyes rise further, to a taut, flat stomach only highlighted by the white cotton shirt covering it. Somebody’s got a James Dean fetish, Nigel thought as he clocked the red jacket that completed the ensemble. He’d always been more of a McQueen man but he had to admit, the look was a good one, showcasing the rider’s lean, lithe form in spectacular fashion. He let his gaze linger for a moment longer on the view, the sinful curve of the rider’s body as he leaned over the handlebars, one lithe, fine-boned hand overhanging gracefully.
One lithe, fine-boned hand that looked oddly familiar to Nigel…
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