I can still feel you dripping out of me during patient consultations
Zane:Good. Want you thinking about it
I'm ovulating
Zane:I know. You told me. While I was inside you
This is getting dangerous
Zane:Everything about us has been dangerous from the start
Supply closet. 6 PM?
Zane:You're ovulating and want to go again?
My decision-making is clearly compromised. Also yes
Because we're disasters. And disasters don't learn from their mistakes.
They just make bigger ones. With enthusiasm.
And apparently, optimal fertility timing.
Chapter twenty-eight
Ride or Die
Zane
Making her come on my bike under stars was a religious experience.
We're at the desert overlook, the one that shows the whole city spread out like a circuit board of bad decisions and neon promises. It's midnight, she's wearing that leather jacket I bought her—the one she protested was "too much" before putting it on and never taking it off—and she's straddling my bike backwards, facing me, looking like every fantasy I've never admitted to having and several I've extensively plotted.
"This is dangerous," she says, but her hands are already working my belt, that specific determination that means her medical brain has gone offline and her disaster protocol hasengaged. "Also, probably illegal. Definitely inadvisable. My risk assessment is writing its resignation letter."
"Everything about us is dangerous," I remind her, lifting her slightly so she can pull my jeans down enough. The bike shifts under our weight, chrome and danger and the best worst idea we've had this week. "When has that stopped us?"
"Never. My prefrontal cortex has filed for workers' comp." She's shimming out of her jeans with the flexibility of someone whose yoga practice has apparently prepared her for motorcycle sex. "Someone could see."
"Let them," I growl, because the thought of someone seeing her like this—desperate for me, taking what she needs—makes something primal in my chest roar with satisfaction.
"You know what's fucked up?" she gasps as she positions herself over me, no condom in sight because we've apparently decided protection is for people with functioning amygdales. "I spent all day at work calculating my fertility window. I'm at peak ovulation. Like, my cervical mucus could be used as a fertility clinic advertisement. And here I am, about to—"
She sinks down onto me before finishing the sentence, and the rest of her medical statistics disappear into a moan that echoes across the desert. The city lights below us blur as she takes me completely, no barrier, just skin and terrible decisions and her extremely fertile reproductive system.
"Don't let me fall," she breathes against my neck, and there's more in those words than just physics.
"Never," I promise, gripping her hips to keep her balanced, and mean it in ways that should terrify me more than they do.
She sets a rhythm that has the bike's suspension protesting, her hands gripping my shoulders for leverage. The leather jacket creaks with her movements, and the sound mixes with her little gasps and moans that she's trying to muffle against my neck.
Inside her head, I know she's calculating—she told me earlier how her brain never fully shuts off, how she counts heartbeats during orgasms, notices respiratory patterns during foreplay. Right now she's probably noting my elevated pulse, the way my pupils are dilated despite the darkness, the exact angle that makes her cervix light up like a Christmas tree.
"Good girl," I murmur when she takes me deeper, changing the angle so I hit that spot that makes her whole body shudder. "Take what you need. Use me."
"Not—fuck—not using you," she gasps, but her pace increases, desperate now, chasing that edge with single-minded focus. "This is mutual destruction. Synchronized disaster. We're like...fuck...like biological warfare against common sense."
"Perfect," I finish, because we are. Two disasters creating something beautiful in the wreckage, her pussy clenching around me like she's trying to extract my DNA through sheer determination.
