Moody Three SOME MEN LOVED the adrenaline rush that came from mastering the road on a powerful machine. Some men loved the horsepower. Diablo loved the freedom. The sensual purr of the motorcycle beneath him, the wind whipping his hair as he careened toward a bend in the road that led to parts unknown—he never got enough of it. Freedom was the drug that altered his consciousness and stirred his blood. Nothing else came close ... unless you counted sex. They were southbound along the coast, he and the woman, and the August sun was splashing down into the ocean like a space capsule on reentry. Blazing reds and oranges bathed the twilight horizon as he arced into an ascending curve that would take them into the hills. She let out a soft cry and held him tighter. At least she wasn’t screaming. Things were improving. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman behind him, nestled right up against his butt, her hands soft on his body. He’d forgotten how good it could feel. Warmth stirred deep in his groin, and his hungry thoughts quickly took the sensation to its logical physical conclusion.
