The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her cheeks turn pink.
And instead of slapping me—she moves in closer.
Then Daria wraps her arms around my waist.
Holy fucking goddess.
I nearly stop breathing.
My Wolf practically faints.
Mate touching.
Mate holding.
Mate close.
I start the engine.
And with her soft curves pressed against my back and the summer night stretching endlessly before us—for the first time in forty-two years—everything feels right.
“Hold on,” I tell her.
Then we take off.
Three
Daria
Okay.
First of all, I'm wearing a skirt.
A flowy one.
A cute one.
A modest one.
Because despite what modern fashion seems to think, I personally don't need strangers seeing my underwear.
And yes, before anyone asks, I came prepared.
I was raised Catholic.
Even went to Catholic school.
And that means I fear God, carry emotional baggage, and know how to wear anti-chub rub shorts beneath every skirt I own thanks to thirteen years of awful plaid uniform jumpers and skirts.
Absolutely no wardrobe malfunctions are happening on my watch.
So when the giant biker says we're going for a ride, I'm mentally preparing myself.
You know.
For physics.
