“No.” He walks the bike up his driveway, each movement flexing his cock inside of me.
His phone vibrates again.
“Maybe you should get that.” I jerk my chin toward his lap.
“The only person I want to talk to is right here.” He flicks the kickstand out once we’re at the end of his driveway.
I grin, straining toward his mouth. When his phone vibrates again. I rest my toes on the footpegs and push up a little. “Answer it.”
He curls a hand up my back and over my shoulder, pushing me back down onto his length. Then he reaches over and taps a button on his console.
“What?” he snaps, voice rough-edged.
“Why aren’t you answering your fucking phone?” Bishop’s voice comes through the speaker on Rafe’s bike.
“I’m busy.”
“Well cancel your fucking plans, man. Ron just called. They’re bringing him something,” Bishop says.
Rafe’s gaze locks onto mine. “Can’t, man.”
There’s a scuffle sound in the background, then it sounds like Gage’s voice in the background.
“Gage wants to know if you’ve seen Bellamy today. Because apparently, I’m his fucking assistant now.”
I lift the corner of my mouth and squeeze those internal muscles. He grunts, his hand coming up to rest against the front of my throat, his thumb brushing back and forth.
“Yeah. I have.”
“When?” Gage asks from the background.
“She’s not picking up her phone, and he’s insisting she be roped in,” Bishop relays.
“I’ll bring her with me.”
“Fine. Meet us at Ron’s,” Bishop says before the call ends.
I can feel my pulse hammering, his thumb grazing up to my jaw, where he uses it to tilt my chin so I have to look him in the eye.
“You good?” he asks, the words nothing but a low rasp.
I nod. “Are you?” I roll my hips deliberately making my point.
He lets out a rough laugh, but it dies before it’s all the way out. “Yeah, baby, I’m fucking peachy.” The words ride out on an exhale, not quite matching the way his jaw clenches or the way he slowly lays me down against his bike, his hand sliding to press against my sternum.
He pushes to stand. I bring my knees up toward my torso to change the angle, and his breath goes out of him in a way that sounds like a decision being made. His grip shifts. His rhythm does too—deeper, slower, like he’s got something to prove and all the time in the world to prove it, even though Bishop’s voice is still sitting in the air between us and we both know it. My fingersfind the front of his shirt. His forehead drops to mine. Neither of us closes our eyes.
He pulls out and I feel the loss of him immediately, the cool air rushing in where he was. He shoves my dress up past my hips, his hands rough and certain, and then he’s coming apart over my stomach with a sound low in his throat that I feel more than hear. He goes still for a moment after, breathing hard, his eyes moving over my skin like he’s not ready to look away from what he’s done. Like he’s deciding something.
His thumb drags once through the warmth pooling at my navel, slow and deliberate, and the eye contact he makes when he does it is almost better than everything that came before.
Then he reaches into the saddlebag without a word and comes back with a small packet. Tears it open with his teeth. The wipe is cool against my stomach, his touch still unhurried, still careful, cleaning me up with the same focused attention he gives everything else.
The road narrowsas we get closer, the terrain shifting from open coastline to something more industrial, less maintained. The air changes with it, salt giving way to a heavier scent—metal and oil mingling with the heat, pressing against my skin.
Rafe slows as we approach the turnoff, his body angling slightly as he checks the road ahead. I can feel the tension radiating from him, a coiled energy waiting to be unleashed as he pulls us onto a rough stretch of gravel that leads toward the salvage yard.
The place comes into view slowly—chain-link fencing, stacks of stripped cars, rusted frames piled into uneven towers catchingthe last of the light in dull, broken reflections. The whole area feels quiet in a way that isn’t natural, like it’s holding its breath.
