I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "More than once. The first editor I worked for thought sleeping with him was part of the job description. When I refused, he torpedoed my career, made sure I couldn't get work at any major publication for two years."
Ice Pick's expression darkens, his hands clenching into fists. "What happened to him?"
"Eventually? He got caught harassing other women and was fired. But it took too long, and too many women paid the pricebefore anyone believed us." I look out at the city, memories bitter on my tongue. "That's when I decided to go independent. No more bosses, no more men deciding what stories matter. Just me and the truth."
"That why you went after the trafficking story? Because you know what it's like to be powerless?"
The question hits closer than I want to admit. "Maybe. Or maybe I just got tired of watching powerful people get away with destroying lives."
He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric. "You're not powerless, Ava. You're one of the strongest people I've ever met."
"I don't feel strong. I feel like I'm barely holding it together."
"Then let me hold you together." His hand comes up, cupping my face with that same surprising gentleness. "Just for tonight, let someone else carry the weight."
I should pull away. I should maintain professional distance, remind him that I'm a journalist and he's a source, and that getting involved would compromise everything. But I'm tired of being strong, tired of carrying the weight of this investigation alone, tired of pretending I don't feel the pull between us.
So instead of pulling away, I lean into his touch. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably the worst I've had in years."
"We should stop."
"We should." But neither of us moves, trapped in the gravity of whatever's building between us.
Then his mouth's on mine, and I'm done pretending. The kiss is rough, demanding, nothing gentle about it. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss, and I open for him without hesitation. He tastes like coffee and danger, and I want more.
My hands fist in his leather cut, pulling him closer, needing the solid weight of him against me. He backs me up until my legs hit the bike, and then he's lifting me, setting me on the seat with my legs on either side of him.
"This is crazy," I gasp when he breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my neck.
"Yeah." His teeth scrape over my pulse point, and I shiver. "But you're not stopping me."
"No, I'm not."
His hands slide under my shirt, calloused palms rough against my skin, and I arch into his touch. Every nerve ending's on fire, every place he touches burning with need. This is reckless, dangerous, exactly the kind of complication neither of us needs.
I don't care.
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my moan as his hands explore, learning the shape of me through my clothes. I rock against him, feeling the hard length of him through his jeans, and the friction's delicious torture.
"Ice Pick," I breathe against his mouth.
"Mason," he corrects, pulling back just enough to look at me. "When it's like this, when it's just us, call me Mason."
"Mason." I test his name again, liking the way it feels on my tongue. "We can't do this here."
"Why not? No one's around. No one's going to interrupt." His thumb brushes over my nipple through my bra, and I gasp. "Unless you want to stop."
"I don't want to stop." The admission's raw, honest. "But I also don't want our first time to be on a motorcycle in the middle of nowhere."
He groans, dropping his forehead to mine. "You're killing me, sweetheart."
"Good. Consider it payback for the last three days of constant surveillance."
That earns me a laugh, rough and genuine. "Fair enough. But we're continuing this later."
"Is that a promise or a threat?"
