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I felt a sudden surge of strength as I threw myself as far as possible in the opposite direction when Conor turned left at an empty intersection. The flashing yellow lights danced over us as he swept in a wide arc. The smooth leather of his jacket felt like ice against my chest as I brushed against it. I wondered for a moment if that was what Conor’s fingers would feel like against my nipples: ice against my skin. I leaned further and further as we turned. My hair fell like a curtain. I could feel my thighs quiver as they strained to stay atop the bike as I dared to tilt even more toward the asphalt that was drifting away beneath me.
I almost felt like a child on the swings. When you get going so high. When you stretch your toes toward the sun and your hair brushes the wood chips beneath you. But the sun was nowhere to be found. The motorcycle beneath me was infinitely more dangerous than a playground swing set. And I was not a child. I was not a fucking child.
The bike wobbled slightly as it picked up speed and a thrill went through me: I was going to do it. I was going to force us to crash. We would be thrown. Our bodies would sail through the misty air. We would either fall into one another. Or we would fall apart.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Conor shouted back at me over the whipping of the wind past our ears.
He yanked me back up by my wrists, jerked them forward so I was pressed impossibly tight against him. I screamed curses into the night flying by. With nothing between us but our thundering hearts, I couldn’t just throw myself to the side; I had to throw us. I couldn’t hurl my body over the edge; I had to hurl ours. I couldn’t let myself fall; I had to drag us both down with me.
I was up for the challenge.
My teeth were gritted except for when I was screaming. I struggled and thrashed and strained every muscle in my body. My feet tried to find something to press against but there was nothing beneath me but road getting dragged under faster and faster and silver pipes that scolded and seared.
Any time I tried to yank my wrists, Conor tightened his grip. I could bite him. I could bash my forehead against the back of his head. I could shove him forward so he went over his handlebars and lost control.
“Goddamn you!” Conor shouted, fury in his voice.
Maybe this was why Conor went faster down those desolate, dark streets. Maybe he sensed that I might. Maybe he knew how much I hated him.
Before I knew it, we were hurtling through the night. Whereas before I imagined rolling across pavement and ending up against a dirty curb with a few scrapes and a bruised elbow, with the speed that Conor was going there was nothing in my mind but certain death.
The engine whined, higher and higher pitched in my ear. The seat vibrated beneath me. Even with Conor’s hands gripping me tight around him, it felt like it was only a matter of time before we were torn apart. Maybe that was why he went faster: so that I had no choice but to hold on.
I squeezed my eyes shut. The street lamps in that part of town were few and far between, but they came so fast at that speed that they seemed like a string of Christmas lights I’d never had in my own house. The wind was brutal against my cheeks so I buried my face against Conor’s back.
This time when I fought for control of my hands back from Conor’s grip it wasn’t to push myself away, but to pull myself closer. I wanted to grab handfuls of his leather jacket that was flapping violently in the wind. To pierce my fingernails through the thin, dark grey t-shirt he always wore. To hold onto his ribs themselves if I could.
This time, when I tugged back against him, he released me. Maybe that was why he went faster. He wanted to get rid of me. A few scrapes and bruises wouldn’t suffice. He needed me obliterated from his life. I needed to be roadkill.
Conor released me and the wind was cruel on my exposed skin. I hadn’t realised how warm his hand had been until it was gone. For a terrified moment, that split second where he wasn’t holding me and I wasn’t holding him, I thought I might get swept away. The wind would catch my jacket like a parachute. I would go flying off the back of the motorcycle. From high, high up, the last thing I would see would be Conor driving away before I crashed back to earth and everything went black.
I clawed at Conor’s chest. I wrapped my arms around him and dug in my fingers to whatever I could grab ahold of and squeezed as tight as I could.
Maybe that was why Conor sped so dangerously. Maybe that was why he pushed the engine to its limits. Why he blew through red lights, accelerating further, and dared the motorcycle to rattle and break apart right beneath our thighs.
Maybe he wanted me to feel like this.
I was no longer afraid. I could feel the strength of his thighs next to mine. I imagined them like that around me instead of around the seat. Would they be held so tense? Would they quiver with such power? The vibration of the machine swept up through my body, brought a heat between my legs. Could his tongue feel like this? Could he send shocks up through me all the way to my fingertips like this?
The wind yanked at my hair. I imagined Conor’s fingers twisted at the nape of my neck. My heart pounded like a jackhammer in my chest. Would he stop thrusting into me if he knew my heart was about to explode like this? Would he stop? Or would he fuck me faster? Harder?
We were completely out of control and I liked it.
I wanted more of it. My arms felt strong as I held onto Conor. I felt powerful as we claimed the night as our own.
Maybe that was why Conor accelerated into the dark. Maybe he wanted me to feel strong.
Or maybe he was just a maniac and I needed to run away from him the first chance I got.
How was I supposed to know?
How was I supposed to even think clearly when my body felt so good? When I felt so alive?
I screamed once more into the night. To my surprise, Conor screamed, too.
