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We ride for what seems to be hours, leaning into curves together and flying through straightaways, no destination in mind. But we end up back at Cutthroat Curve as if it’s our place. Maybe it is? The place where things changed and we began.
I want to start over, though—or maybe it’s a continuation—from this new, deeper place of understanding between us. Jayme squeezes me tightly with both her arms and thighs, and it feels as though she can read my mind.
I pull over on the shoulder and move a few feet deeper into the soft dirt before stopping. I can see for miles, over the cliff and all along the road in front of us and behind us. When I shut off the motorcycle, it goes dark, only the moon high above and the distant glow of the town below lighting the night.
I hold the motorcycle steady as Jayme climbs off and begins to take off the helmet. I pop the kickstand down and throw my leg over the back, coming to help her undo the clasp. Once she’s freed, I hook the strap over the handlebar and look at her face in the moonlight, feeling something inside me move deeply.
“How’re you doing?” It’s a loaded question, meaning more than just how she feels after the ride. I mean with the festival, with us, with the argument . . . with everything.
“I think I understand why you like riding so much,” she answers, adding a huge ‘gotcha’ smile.
I’m already chuckling, though I don’t know why. I lift my brows questioningly.
“All that vibration.” She shimmies her whole body as if the motorcycle’s rumbling is still working its way through her.
With that little statement, everything else is forgotten and my focus zeroes in on her. “You like that?” I ask, dropping my voice deeper and huskier.
Taking a step toward her, I force her to look up slightly, though in her heels, she’s not much shorter than I am.
“Carson . . .” she whispers with a needy sigh. The touch of my lips to hers seems to flip a switch inside her. Whatever was holding her back on the ride has evaporated into the scant air between us. She kisses me back passionately, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me in tight. Our bodies slam into each other, trying to occupy the same space, and she gasps when I grab her ass, gripping it hard in my hands.
I knead her flesh through her tight slacks, and she arches her back into my touch, groaning in pleasure with each squeezing hold. I test her more, surprising her with a sharp smack to her left ass cheek.
“Oh!” she cries out, but not in pain. “Was that for tonight?” she asks coyly, “or for fun?”
“Do you want to talk more right now?” I challenge.
She shakes her head with a sexy tilt of her lips as she tells me boldly, “No, I want you to make me come. The motorcycle ride has me on edge.” I smack her ass again, a dark brow lifted. She corrects herself. “You have me on edge.”
I offer her a satisfied nod. “Turn around and bend over the motorcycle.” Even as I tell her what to do, I don’t wait for her to obey. I spin her myself, pressing gently on her upper back to guide her to the seat where she can safely lean forward for support.
Running my hands down her back, I reach her waistband and tug at her tucked-in blouse until it’s hanging free. Standing behind her, I grind my cock against her ass, wanting her to feel how much I want her. And then I slip my hands under her shirt to cup her full breasts. Through the silk of her bra, I can feel the hard nubs of her nipples, and I pinch them between my fingers, drawing a hiss of pleasure from her.
Using my nose, I brush her hair out of the way and lay a line of sweet kisses along her neck. She smells like night air, perfume, and a hint of salt from work today. Whispering hotly, I ask, “You want me to fuck you right here on the side of the road?”
She moans but shakes her head. “Lick me . . . oh, God, please . . . lick me.”
I love that she’s confident and openly tells me what she wants. Hearing her plead is sexy. Hearing her make a demand is erotic. I make quick work of the button of her slacks, and she helps wiggle them down until the waistband locks her feet from spreading any further. Her round ass is pale in the moonlight, split by the string of her thong. Any fingerprints or handprints from my earlier play have faded, and I long to replace them.
I drop to my knees behind her, grabbing the taut flesh once again and kneading her. Slowly, I trace a fingertip along the line of her thong, pulling the string from between her cheeks and continuing down until I feel how wet she is. Her folds are soaked and slippery, and I can smell the scent of her desire. “Fuck, Jayme,” I groan.
