He’s like a ball of energy that won’t just sit down and do nothing.
And truthfully, I admire that about him—his boundless enthusiasm, the way he bulldozes through life without hesitation. He’s everything I’m not, and where I once saw that as reckless weakness, I now see it as awe-inspiring.
But not right now.
Not when he lets go of the handlebars, his arms flungwide, embracing the air while the bike tears forward at a terrifying speed.
My arm wraps around his stomach tightly as I start to reach over, then remember I know nothing about motorcycles and sit back down, holding on to him with both hands.
“Stop it, Yulian,” I shout over the wind.
“Come on, it’s fun!”
“It won’t be fun when we die.”
He laughs, the husky sound swallowed by the wind. “So dramatic.”
Thankfully, he grips the handlebars again. Not so thankfully, he guns the speed, weaving between the few cars on the highway, each near miss sending my pulse into overdrive.
“Slow down!” I shout, hitting his chest.
“Ow.” He pats my thigh, then grabs it, squeezing slightly, and a rush of apprehension cuts through me, soaking me through.
One thing I truly don’t hate about this is having my thighs pressed up to his, his back flush against my chest, my hands glued to his abs that I can still feel through the gloves and leather.
“Stop thinking and feel the wind, Mishka!” he shouts, his hand going back to the handlebars. I’m glad he’s not driving with one hand, but I can’t fight off the disappointment at the loss of it on me.
Honestly, what the hell?
I’m the one who suggested we go for a ride, so he’d get distracted and stop thinking about fucking. I meant a ride in my car, but Yulian, being Yulian, said, “That’s so boring, let’s go on this baby instead.”
It’s not a “baby,” it’s a motorcycle. An inert, unfeeling object.
But I didn’t say that, because Yulian was so excited about the prospect of showing me around. We suited up in leather—I insisted since he’d planned to ride half naked like the reckless bastard he is. Now I’m wondering if there’s more protection out there beyond the jacket, boots, and helmet, because Yulian rides like he’s begging for death.
The highway lights smear past in our periphery as he tears ahead, and I thank whatever’s holy that the road is nearly empty this late, almost early morning.
“Woo-hooo!” His cry rips through the night as the bike roars faster, the wind battering my face.
“Feel that?” he shouts, tapping my thigh once more.
“Our imminent deaths? Yeah, crystal clear!”
He laughs, the deep, husky sound carrying in the night. “The wind, Mishka. The wind. You have to let go to enjoy it.”
“And die? No, thank you!”
“We’re all gonna die anyway. Better enjoy what time we have! That sounded so wise and smart, right? Right?” He laughs again, seeming so proud of himself.
I squeeze my grip around his waist. “Slow down!”
“Hugging me close will only get me fired up!”
He speeds until I’m so sure we’re definitely crashing.
My eyes slam shut as I cling to him, my fingers digging in so hard, it must hurt, though he doesn’t notice, too busy ripping through the night at a speed meant for committing suicide.
He’s so fucking unhinged, irresponsible—I can’t believe he’d planned to go on this ride with no leather on—and entirely incompatible with my safe, thought-out lifestyle.
