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Arms tightening around his waist, my fingers dig furiously into his loose shirt as the vibrations rev higher.
“Ohhhh, God,” I moan, hoping he is unable to hear me through our helmets and over the rush of wind. I honestly worry how he might handle things if he were to find out.
As the orgasm builds and builds, despite me trying to mentally stamp it down, my hands slowly unclench from his shirt, and my gripping turns into palming as an itchy need to touch takes over my limbs.
Most of the time, when I am on these motorcycles, there is a lack of contact due to the thick layers of leather the biker wears, but because Zane gave me his jacket, he is now only wearing a thin white tee. Everything beneath is all hard muscle — muscles no one can see on these men because they are always hidden beneath all their riding gear. Damn am I lucky to be witness to it sometimes.
Palming his pecs, I nick his nipples with my fingernails.
Stop touching him.
I trace each rectangular ab muscle, slowly counting them one by one.
Do not do that.
I check to see if he has a V pronounced enough to find with my fingers.
Oh my stars, he does.
Unable to help myself, I slip my hand beneath his billowing shirt and go in search of a happy trail. Faint, soft, but definitely there. Why are you doing this to yourself?
With every small, exploratory touch, Zane waffles between tensing and trying really hard to let go and relax — to let things happen, whatever those things might be.
I only need to know one more thing… Is he enjoying this as much as I am?
My fingertips wedge between his warm skin and the buckled band of his pants, and I wiggle them through the tight curls his happy trail leads to… and beyond.
Zane is as hard as the pavement eating up his tire marks.
With my nipples pressed against his back, pebbling from the friction each small bump in the road causes, my breathing turns exaggerated and erratic, causing my chest to heave against him. There is no hiding how my body reacts at this point.
I discover that he undoubtedly knows when he sits deeper into his seat in order to press his body firmer against mine. My exploring fingers clench around him and into his shirt, and my eyes squeeze shut tight.
Zane pays attention to the cue and ever so intentionally casually shimmies, causing the rough material of his cargos to grind against me. Mixed with the rumbling speed vibrating through my entire body, the blend of sensations makes me combust. Head to toe, my body trembles, the intense shake rivaling even that coming from the incredible power of his bike.
Then… he pops a wheelie, feeding my orgasm with a burst of adrenaline and sending me to a space somewhere else. Somewhere in the stars. My mind goes completely blank. We get to the condo in record time, but thankfully soon after my orgasm. The bike slows as my body seemingly floats.
Neither of us move to leave the bike right away, though, just sitting there for a moment, him balancing the bike with his feet while I wait for him to drop the kickstand and turn it off.
When he nervously clears his throat, that is the precise moment I realize that my hand is still in his pants, fingers wrapped around his cock.
Oops.
I give him a good squeeze and slowly reclaim my hand. He drops the kickstand, turns off the bike, and we dismount.
His gaze nonchalantly casts toward the passenger seat to see what kind of mess I made. I would say the mix between brown matte makeup and… stuff… is sexy, but um…
I grimace. Zane shrugs, removes his helmet, hangs it from his handlebar, whips off his shirt, and gives the seat a good wipe.
Everything that is damp picks right up, but the makeup is on there pretty damn good, as makeup is supposed to do. “The rest will likely need an oil-based cleaner,” I inform as he shoves a corner of the white material into his back pocket.
Under a parking lot lamp, his darkened taupe gaze flicks up to mine before dropping again to start unhooking my bag. “Maybe I want to keep it that way,” he states matter of factly, his bicep and forearm contracting as he lifts my bag and slings it over his bare shoulder.
A trophy? Damn, why is that so sexy? A surprising, unexpected blush creeps into my cheeks. “Might stain your shirt, too,” I warn, removing my helmet and wedging it under my arm.
“I have plenty more.”
I look around for anyone else’s bikes, assuming I might find at least one other Hell for Leather member here attempting to call it a night, but none are to be found. One of them is nearby, though; Kio promised me two bodyguards, and he is always good on his word. Whichever other guy he assigned to watch me is likely hiding in the shadows on his bike outside — down the block a ways, perhaps.
