“Matteo—”
He lifts me off the bucket like I weigh nothing, and for a second I think he’s going to carry me inside. Instead, he sets me down on the seat of the Harley, the leather still warm from the sun, and steps between my legs.
Of all the things I imagined doing on this bike, this wasn’t one of them. It’s so much better.
His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, more demanding. I wrap my legs around his hips and try to pull him closer, but the angle is wrong—he’s too tall, towering over me.
He solves the problem by pushing me backward and following me down. One hand braces against the gas tank behind me while the other grips my hip, dragging me to the edge of the seat until I’m barely on it. My back meets the handlebars and he leans over me, caging me in with his body, and suddenly everything lines up.
The hard length of him presses against my center. The friction drags a moan out of me that he swallows whole.
I need more. I need to touch him, feel him, make him as desperate as I am.
My hands slide down his pecs, over the ridges of his stomach, to the buckle of his belt. I fumble with the leather, fingers clumsy with want?—
He catches my wrists.
“Not yet,” he says against my mouth.
He pins my hands above my head, pressing them back against the handlebars, and the stretch makes my back arch. The position is impossibly vulnerable—my body curved beneath his, my hips tilted up toward him, completely open and at his mercy.
The position should make me feel exposed, self-conscious. Instead I just feel wanted. Every nerve ending I have lights up and begs.
His mouth hovers over mine, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath but not close enough to kiss. He’s watching me. Waiting.
“If you don’t want?—”
I wrap my legs tighter around his hips and pull him down to me, swallowing the rest of his sentence with my mouth.
He releases my wrists, and I keep them where he put them. He makes a low sound in his throat, almost a growl, before his hand slides under my shirt. His thumb brushes the underside of my breast and I arch into him, my shoulders pressing harder against the handlebars. The bike shifts slightly beneath me, and the instability makes me gasp.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my collarbone.
He shoves my bra up and palms my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers, and the sensation shoots straight between my legs. I’m already wet, already aching, a liquid heat building low in my belly that makes me roll my hips toward him even though the angle barely gives me any friction.
He notices. His other hand drops to the button of my jeans and his eyes find mine.
“Please,” I breathe.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I like hearing you beg.” He pops the button and drags down the zipper, tugging my jeans down my thighs just enough to give him access.
His hand grips my hip, tilting my pelvis up, and then his other hand slides into my underwear and his fingers find me slick and swollen andready, and the sound I make echoes through the garage.
“Fuck.” His forehead drops against mine. “You’re soaked.”
I can’t respond. I can’t do anything except roll my hips against his hand, chasing his touch. He circles my clit once, twice, and my head falls back against the handlebars with a dull clang that I barely register.
“Look at me.”
I force my eyes open. His gaze is so intense it steals what’s left of my breath. Hungry, focused, like he wants to devour me whole.
“You have any idea what you look like right now? Spread out on my bike like this?” he growls, and slides two fingers inside me.
My mouth falls open. Two thick fingers, stretching me perfectly, exactly what I needed, and it turns out my dream didn’t come close to the real thing.
He curls them forward, finding that spot like he’s done this a thousand times, and I clench around him so hard the bike rocks beneath me.
“That’s it.” His thumb circles my clit while his fingers work inside me. “Give it to me. Want to feel you come on my fingers.”
