I want to say something clever.
Or literally anything.
All I manage is, “Not enough to make fucking me on it less worth it.”
He groans.
The sound is simply delicious to hear.
“You’re something else, you know that?”
Then Nash leans in, covering my body with his, forearm braced beside me on the tank, and the cool of the Harley cuts through the inferno of my skin, making me arch and shake all over. I’m wrecked.Absolutely, gloriously wrecked.
Nash is making absolutely sure of it.
He thrusts again, and this time my vision whites out at the edges. If I let go for one second, I’ll just slide boneless to the floor and spend the rest of my life with grease in my hair and a permanent tremor in my thighs.
“You’re lucky—fuck—this is just for the damn plot of things,” I get out, because spite is stronger than shame, even when you’re seconds from losing your mind at the hands of a tattooed ex-motorcycle gang member with the self-control of a junkyard dog and the technical precision of NASA mission control.
Nash laughs-low, dark, full of promise-and then he does the next thing.
He slaps one of my thighs—rude—and hauls my left leg up onto the foot peg with zero warning, folding me higher, tighter against the bike, making my calves burn and my balance go completely out the window. Instinct kicks in-hard-and I clutch even tighter to the bike. I don’t even care about the paint job anymore; I am very suddenly all about not face-planting into the seat leather while Nash ruins me on a piece of motorcycle history.
He leans in, mouth so close to my ear I can smell the peppermint on his breath.
“Is this why you wake up at five to do Pilates, princess?” His hand fists in my hair, and I get a burst of Christmas lights behind my eyelids. “To be flexible for me?”
Like I said. Rude.
I mean, also, yes. God, yes.
My entire forearm is pressed to the bike frame, white-knuckle grip, the glossy red tank cool against fevered skin, and I can feel every rivet, every seam, like it’s imprinted on my body. Nash is moving behind me, slow-and-rough at the same time, too thick, filling me so deep it feels like I’ve been spread open just for him.
I can’t catch my breath.
The air is syrup-thick, all engine heat, sweat, sugar, and the insane collision of our scents. Vanilla, buttercream, and caramel from me versus snow-frosted bourbon, smoked cedar, and wild air from him, both of us tangled up in motor oil and the faintest trace of citrus from somewhere—maybe a cleaning wipe, body spray, or just a figment of my delirious imagination.
Either way, I am drowning in it.
Above us, the strung holiday lights throw pinwheels of color across everything. My skin glows tinsel-pink and green and electric blue, even more ridiculous when Nash leans in and his tattoos light up like Christmas came early for anyone with a tattoo fixation.
The overhead bulbs rattle, festive and unbothered by the potential insurance liability going on directly underneath them.
“Are you even listening to me, Princess?” Nash taunts, dipping his hips forward in another rough snap that tells me, in no uncertain terms, he is nowhere near finished with me yet. “This bike is worth more than your car. I rebuilt every single part by hand, and if you even dent it?—“
“Oh, I am not the fragile object in this scenario,” I manage, voice wrecked, hair falling in my face like I’m auditioning for a horror movie for degenerates. Nash’s hand pushes my hair back, tugs a tiny bit, then braces me even harder against the Harley, his fingers leaving little points of heat wherever he touches.
He’s big. Not just in the “oh, what an impressive Alpha specimen” way, but in the “bench presses the sun on weekends and then comes home to fix your toaster” way.
Behind me, Nash is a wall, all muscle, force, and raw determination, but even more than that, he’s locked in, inescapable, completely focused on breaking me down to atoms.
I shudder, slick soaking his cock, and this?
This is the dream, the one that doesn’t make it onto the Vlogmas content drafts. Me, braced on a piece of motorcycle history while Nash—who should be considered an attractively dangerous holiday hazard—hammers into me without mercy, eyes glinting in the colored lights.
The angle is everything.
Up on a tiptoe, one leg hiked so high it’s practically a yoga pose, every brutal thrust hits places I didn’t even know I could feel. The edge of the tank digs into my skin, cold and perfect, and I swear I can see stars. The chorus of carols blaring from the workbench radio is distant—punctuated by soft curses and the clang of wind outside—but that just makes the here-and-now sharper, more real.
