I look at the bike. Then back at him. “I already chose you,” I say.
His jaw tightens slightly at that. He swings a leg over the loaner bike and steadies it with his boots planted firm. Then he looks up at me. “Come here.”
I step closer, heart already picking up speed.
His hands slide to my waist and he lifts me easily, settling me on the back seat. My thighs press against his hips. My breath catches at the closeness. I tighten my arms around him, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades. His hands slide down to rest briefly over mine where they sit against his chest. “You hold on like that,” he murmurs. “Or around my waist. Your choice.”
I hesitate, then slide my arms around him fully.
He smiles, and I feel it in the way his body relaxes. “Hold on, ptichka.”
The engine roars to life beneath us.
The ride is quiet, but every red light feels like foreplay.
He slows smoothly, engine dropping into a deep, steady rumble. When he stops, his boots hit the pavement and the vibration settles low between my thighs, constant and deliberate. His left hand works the clutch, forearm tightening beneath ink and sun-browned skin. I watch the flex of muscle. My arms are wrappedaround his waist, palms splayed over his stomach. Every time he shifts, I feel it. The subtle roll of his hips. The controlled power in the way he handles the throttle. It’s precise. Confident. Unhurried.
The engine hums against me. I press closer under the excuse of balance, my chest against his back, my thighs firm against his hips. The bike vibrates and I swear he knows exactly what that does to me. My fingers tighten slightly in his shirt. He tips his helmet just enough to glance back at me at the next light. Not fully turning. Just enough to check.
The light changes and he twists the throttle slowly, the engine roaring to life beneath us, and the sudden acceleration makes me slide forward, closer, heat pooling low in my stomach. If this is just the ride, I’m not sure I’ll survive the destination.
Inside his place the door locks with that heavy, final click and the air changes. No more games. He doesn't grab me. Just leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching me kick off my boots one at a time. Slow. His eyes trace me like I'm the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"You gonna stand there staring all night?" I ask, voice already softer than I planned.
He pushes off the counter, steps closer without hurry. "Yeah. Because I still can't believe you're here. Choosing this."
My chest tightens at how quiet he says it. Not cocky. Honest.
I laugh a little to cover it. “That’s bold of you.”
He stops right in front of me, close enough I feel his warmth. Knuckles brush my neck, slide down my collarbone, skim theswell of my breast through my shirt. My nipple hardens under the touch. He sees it. That slow, private smile he only gives me.
"Take it off," he says. Calm. But his voice cracks the tiniest bit on the last word.
I peel the shirt over my head. Bra next. When the lace hits the floor his gaze drops, dark and reverent, like he's seeing me for the first time all over again.
"Your turn," I whisper.
He strips his shirt in one yank. Jeans stay on. Belt buckled. Cock straining so hard against the denim I can see every thick inch. But he doesn't rush. Just steps in, cups my jaw with both hands now, thumbs stroking my cheeks like I'm breakable.
This kiss is different. Slow. Deep. Like he's pouring everything into it. His tongue slides against mine lazy and thorough, and when he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against mine.
"Roman…"
"Shh." He kisses the corner of my mouth. "You walked away from everything tonight. For me. Let me show you what that does to me."
He walks me back to the couch, sits, and pulls me onto his lap so I'm straddling him. My bare breasts press to his chest and we both exhale shaky. His hands settle on my hips holding me like he never wants to let go. He rocks me once, slow, so I feel him through the denim, but it's the way he looks at me while he does it that makes my throat close up. Eyes soft. Hungry. Adoring.
I roll my hips. Slow circles first. Then deeper. The friction burns. His head tips back for a second, throat working, but he bringshis gaze right back to mine. Doesn't break eye contact. One hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, cradling the back of my head like I'm something sacred.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathes. "So beautiful it hurts."
My rhythm stutters at the words. He notices. Pulls me closer so my chest is flush to his, mouth brushing my ear. "It's not enough, is it?" he asks softly.
"No."
"Say what you need."
