“Noses clean,” I say, quoting Quincy without his voice. “But this isn’t a city.”
“No cameras out here.”
“No witnesses.”
“Boundaries?”
“Your call. I match you.”
She steps into me. I meet her halfway. The first kiss is simple. No angle. No trick. Her mouth is cool from the ride, then warm. I taste vanilla and salt. My hands land at her waist and stay there like I promised.
The wind lifts and drops a loose wave at her neck. I tuck it back, and she sighs like I hit a button. She breathes into me, and I take it.
“More?”
“Yes.”
The second kiss goes deeper. I take my time. I feel her fingers slide under the back of my shirt and rest there. Heat goes up my spine like a match. I keep my mouth on hers until she drops a sound into me that makes my knees think about failing.
She pulls back first. “Bike.”
I sit and steady the bike with both feet flat. She climbs on facing me, one knee on either side, careful of the pegs. The stance puts her close enough that our breath counts together. She rests her hands on my shoulders, grip tight for balance.
She kisses me again, slower now, like we built the tempo and can sit in it. She rocks once, exploratory. Heat spikes. I meet her the way she asks for it—pressure, not surge. She does it again, and I answer again, my hands firm at her hips.
The desert is a wall of heat. The sky presses down. We give it something to watch.
I kiss along her jaw. She tips her head to make space. My mouth finds the place under her ear that makes her gasp. I keep it light, then less light, careful of marks. She takes a fistful of my shirt and drags it, a wordless go.
“Tell me what you want,” I say, forehead to hers.
“Less thinking.”
“I can help.”
“Then help,” she says.
I slide one hand up under her shirt until my fingers find skin I haven’t earned yet. She nods against my mouth, and I keep going. Her breath hitches. I redo the motion more slowly. She swears under her breath and kisses me like we’re out of time.
“More?”
“Yes,” she says, voice rough.
Her hands move under my shirt now, tracing lines I didn’t know I needed traced. I feel ridiculous about how much that undoes me. I let it. I like being undone if I can still steer.
She grinds gently against me once, testing. I meet her exactly, no more. She makes a sound that tells me I got it right. The bike creaks under us. The world narrows to heat and friction and breath.
“Words. I want your words.”
She whimpers, “Don’t stop. Keep your hands there.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
I keep them there. I learn her rhythm. I don’t rush. I don’t get clever. I stay with what works and keep the pressure consistent. She drops her head to my shoulder for a second, then lifts it like she wants to watch my face when I get her spots.
The wind picks up and dies. The sky goes gold at the edges. A hawk cuts the air. The desert doesn’t care what we’re doing.
