Page 18 of Crash’s Secret

He’s going to ruin me.

He drives in slow and deep, watching my face, learning what works.

He talks the whole time. Low and ragged, half of it filth, half of it worship.

“Touch yourself,” he says. “Rub your clit while I thrust in and out of you.”

I slide my hand down between us, and his eyes follow it.

And within seconds, another orgasm builds. It starts at the base of my spine this time, deeper than the first one, slower. My free hand finds the edge of the tank and holds on. His rhythm picks up a hitch.

He’s close too, fighting it, waiting me out.

“Let go, baby. Come with me.”

It begins low and rolls upward, slow and deep. My back bows off the tank, my heel digging into the back of his thigh, and his name comes out of me over and over.

He goes quiet, following me over seconds later with his rhythm coming apart, hips driving into me rough and uneven.

He comes with his face buried against my collarbone. I hold him there, fingers in his hair, his whole weight shaking against me, and for once in his life, he doesn’t have a single thing to say.

His heart slams against my chest.

I shiver, and he slides his cut out from under my shoulders and hangs it over them instead.

The leather smells like him. I grew up knowing exactly what it means when a woman wears a member’s cut, even for five minutes. If he understands what he just did, he gives no sign of it.

“You good?” he asks.

“Don’t fish for compliments.”

His laugh moves through both of us. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“That’s a yes.” I pull back enough to look at him.

He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, and his hand stays at the side of my neck, thumb moving along my jaw, and he looks at me so long the look starts to mean things. “You came back,” he says, mostly to himself.

He kisses my forehead.

We get dressed in stages—my jeans, his shirt, my bra fished off the ground, my shirt off the handlebars, my boots hunted out of the dirt, his belt. I hand his cut back last, and he swings it on and becomes the Vice President of the Hellborn Kings again in one motion. I watch it happen and tell myself the man from five minutes ago is still in there.

I’m buttoning my jeans when I ask, “So what do we do tomorrow?”

He’s quiet behind me. A few seconds. Long enough.

“That’s not a problem for right now,” he says. “Right now, I only want tonight.”

My whole body clenches.

Right now, I only want tonight.

He told me an hour ago, ten feet from this spot. He doesn’t make promises to women.

Everybody laughs, everybody leaves happy, and nobody cries when he leaves. I knew all of it before I climbed onto his bike, and I climbed on anyway.

I don’t cry. I am, if nothing else, my father’s daughter.

“Okay,” I say.