The silence should have been easy, but it wasn’t. It was radioactive, filling every crack in the air.
“Why did you come back?” I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.
He laced his fingers, pressed them hard enough to blanch the skin. “Because I’m an idiot.”
I tried to laugh, but it got stuck behind my teeth. “You could have just texted. Or not.”
He nodded, as if conceding the point. “I wanted to see you.”
Something twisted, deep in my gut. I pulled the blanket up over my mouth, hiding behind the weave. “You’re not making this easier.”
He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the last thing I want.”
We waited. The embers ticked down, each one a timer, a bomb, a star in the slow process of dying.
He stood, crossed to my side of the fire pit, and crouched in front of me. The night turned him into a cutout, all planes and shadow. I watched the muscles in his jaw work, the old scar flashing like a warning light.
He took the edge of the blanket, peeled it back just enough to see my face. “You want me to go?”
I shook my head, the smallest possible arc.
He hesitated, like he was waiting for some outside confirmation, then said, “Can I touch you?”
The words hit harder than a gunshot. I nodded, not trusting my voice. “I thought bikers just took what they wanted.”
“Yeah, and we all look like the guys they put on book covers.” He chuckled, and it made me smile.
His hand hovered, knuckles cracked and ugly, but the touch was soft. He ran his thumb down the side of my cheek, flicked a smear of ash from my jawline. He smelled like sweat, leather, and the last fumes of the road.
His lips were dry, hesitant, the first brush more test than kiss. I met him halfway, teeth clinking, then reset. The second try was better—deeper, hungrier. My pulse hammered in my ears.
He wrapped one arm behind my head, fingers sinking into my hair. The other cupped my face, holding me steady as if afraid I might disappear if he let go.
I let the blanket slide from my shoulders, let the night air bite at my skin. I reached for his jacket, yanked him closer, feeling the tension in his body, the hard lines of scar and old injury.
We kissed like survivors—desperate, uncertain, greedy for whatever time we could steal. His hands found my back, tracingthe shape of my spine through the thin wool. Mine fumbled for his belt, then stalled, caught in the fabric of his shirt.
He pulled back, breathing hard. “You sure?” he asked, voice gone to gravel.
I nodded, dragging him down onto the blanket with me. The fire pit lit our faces in alternating bursts of red and shadow.
His weight pressed me into the dirt. I didn’t care. I clawed at his shirt, nails catching on the old burns, the seams of his scars. He flinched, but didn’t stop me.
His mouth was everywhere—my lips, my jaw, the hollow behind my ear. I tasted salt and tobacco, the ghost of whiskey from a hundred nights ago.
I dug my hands under his shirt, palms mapping the territory of his back. The muscles flexed, then relaxed, a tide of tension yielding to the want beneath. He ground his hips into mine, the friction electric, my nerves stripped to wire.
I arched, rolled him over, pinned him with my knees. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, a beast surprised to find itself caged. I kissed him again, harder, biting his lower lip until he gasped.
He laughed, grabbed my waist, and flipped us back, the motion so fluid it felt choreographed. The blanket bunched under us, rough against my thighs, but I barely noticed. I wanted more—needed it.
He slid his hands up my sweater, fingers grazing skin. My breath stuttered, then came back faster. I reached for the buckle on his belt, managed to undo it despite the tremor in my hands.
He paused, one hand on my ribcage, eyes searching my face. “Tell me to stop,” he said.
“Don’t,” I said, voice barely a whisper.
He kissed me again, slow at first, then faster, losing control with each pass. I felt the blanket slip, exposing my back to the night. I pressed into him, every inch of my body lit up, alive.
