I was down the stairs and out the front door before he could appear, my jacket barely on, boots unlaced, moving on pure instinct and the desperate need to not be there when he walked out of that bathroom.
The motorbike shop was sleek. All glass and chrome and expensive motorcycles lined up like art pieces. A few customers browsed, but the place was quiet enough that I heard the bell chime when I walked in.
A guy looked up from behind the counter. Thirty, maybe thirty-two. Dark hair, sharp jaw, dressed in black that looked expensive and deliberate. His eyes tracked over me in a way that had nothing to do with customer service and everything to do with interest.
“Help you?” he asked.
“Looking to buy a bike.”
“What kind?”
“Fast. Reliable. Can handle city streets in winter.”
He smiled. Slow and deliberate. “I think we can work out a deal.”
His name was Dan. He walked me through the inventory, pointing out specs and features while standing too close, letting his hand brush mine when he gestured, making it clear this wasn't just about the sale.
Under normal circumstances, I would've shut it down. Kept it professional. Bought what I needed and left.
But I was still wound tight from this morning. Still half-hard and furious about it. And Dan was good-looking enough that using him as a distraction didn't seem like the worst idea I'd ever had.
“This one,” I said, stopping in front of a matte black sport bike that looked mean and fast. “Specs?”
He rattled them off. Engine size, horsepower, handling. All the technical shit that mattered. But his eyes stayed on meinstead of the bike, reading interest that had nothing to do with motorcycles.
“Want to see the custom options?” he asked. “I've got a catalog in my office. Better lighting to go over details.”
“Yeah,” I said instead. “Let's see what you've got.”
His office was in the back. It was a small space with a desk, a computer, and windows that overlooked the shop floor but were tinted dark enough that nobody could see in clearly.
“Catalog's here,” he said, pulling out a tablet and setting it on the desk. But he didn't step back.
“You always this friendly with customers?” I asked.
“Only the ones I'm interested in.” He leaned against the desk with his arms crossed. “And I'm definitely interested.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. You walked in here looking like you needed to burn off some energy. Figured I could help with that.”
Direct. I could work with direct.
“What'd you have in mind?” I asked, stepping closer.
His smile widened. “Whatever you want.”
I kissed him before I could think better of it. Grabbed his shirt and pulled him in, tasting coffee and want and the convenient fiction that this was about him instead of the man I was trying not to think about.
Dan responded immediately. He was good at it. Knew what he was doing. Made the right sounds when I bit his lip, pressed against me in ways that felt practiced.
But it wasn't enough. Wasn't what I needed. Because my brain kept supplying images of someone else. Broader shoulders. Rougher hands. Tattoos I wanted to trace with my tongue.
I shoved the thought down hard and focused on Dan instead.
His hands slid under my shirt, warm against my skin, and he made a low sound against my mouth when he felt how tense I was.
I let him push me back against the desk. Let him work my belt open and when he pulled my jeans down over my hips his hands stopped.
