We don’t talk much. We don’t need to.
The night air slips past us, cool and clean, and I let myself relax into the rhythm of it. The rise and fall of his breathing. The way he moves like the bike is an extension of him. The way I don’t feel nervous anymore.
Just… held.
When we roll back into town, I almost wish the ride were longer.
He pulls up beside my car and kills the engine. The sudden quiet presses in around us, my ears still buzzing from the ride.
“Hold on,” he says.
He swings off first, steadying the bike with one hand before turning back to me. His hands come to my waist, firm and sure, and he guides me down, helping me clear the seat and land on solid ground.
For a second, he doesn’t let go.
My boots hit the pavement, and I realize how close we are now. No bike between us. No helmet. Just him, standing right there. He closes the distance in two strides and catches my wrist, guiding me back until my hips bump the side of my car. The metal is cool through my jeans. His body brackets mine, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the steady strength in the way he plants one hand beside my head.
He leans down and claims my mouth, and the sound that breaks from my throat is embarrassingly needy. His hands fist in my hair, not gentle now, tipping my head back as he kisses me again like he’s done waiting. I open for him without hesitation, my tongue sliding against his, the kiss turning deep and slow and dizzying.
He steps into me, crowding me back against the car until there’s nowhere to go, his body hard and solid against mine. I feel him everywhere. Heat. Pressure. The unmistakable promise in the way he holds me there like he’s daring me to pull away.
I can’t.
The kiss devours me. It’s messy and consuming and so hot it steals my breath, my thoughts scattering until there’s nothing left but his mouth and the way my body responds like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
I clutch at his jacket, needing something to hold onto, needinghim. The world fades out entirely, leaving only the two of us pressed together, breathing the same air, caught in something that feels inevitable and dangerous and so, so good.
“How was that?” he asks, voice low. “Pretty great?”
I can’t help it. I laugh, breathless, and that earns me another kiss. Shorter this time. Just as lethal.
“Yeah, biker boy,” I murmur against his mouth. “Pretty damn great.”
That pulls a small smile from him. Not cocky. Satisfied.
He steps back, but only far enough to reach for the jacket draped over my shoulders. Instead of taking it, he adjusts it, tugging it closer around me like he’s making sure I’m actually warm.
“Come on,” he says quietly.
He walks me to my door and opens it, one hand settling at my lower back, guiding me as I slide into the seat. My heart is still racing. My lips are still tingling. He waits as I buckle my seatbelt. The click sounds louder than it should. Only then does he lean in, one hand braced on the doorframe. “Text me when you get home.”
“I will.”
He nods once, satisfied, then closes the door gently, like I’m something worth taking care of. Like I matter.
I start the car and pull out of the spot, glancing in the mirror before I turn onto the road. He’s still there, standing beside his bike, watching.
I get home, pulling into my driveway ten minutes later, and walk inside to find my two boys glaring at me.
Psycho is perched on the back of the couch like a gargoyle, green eyes narrowed, tail flicking in slow, judgmental arcs. Menace sits on the coffee table directly in my path, round and fluffy and deeply unimpressed, blocking my way like a tiny, furry bouncer.
“Oh don’t start,” I tell them, toeing off my shoes. “I was gone for, like, an hour.”
Psycho chirps sharply, hopping down and stalking toward me with exaggerated slowness. Menace lets out a low, offended mrrrp, like I personally wronged him.
I drop my keys on the counter. “You were fed. You have water. You have toys. You were fine.”
Menace flops dramatically onto his side, belly exposed, staring at me upside down like a Victorian child with the vapors.
