Page 17 of Crash’s Secret

“I need you to fuck me.”

“Don’t say shit like that, I’m trying to take my time.”

I shake my head. “Don’t take your time.”

“I’m in control, baby.” His fingers move, and my body answers. “You’re going to come on my hand first, with my fingers in your pussy. I want to give my dick something to look forward to.”

His fingers curl exactly right, and his thumb rolls slow circles over my clit.

His mouth keeps up a low, filthy commentary. How tight I am, how wet, and what he’s going to do once I’ve come for him.

Then his fingers crook and his thumb presses down, and my entire focus shoots to the sensations between my legs.

“There it is,” he says. “There it is, baby, give it to me.”

It catches me on an upstroke of his fingers, sooner than I’m ready, and I’m moving faster against his fingers, chasing the sensation. My thighs clamp around his hips. My heel knocks the exhaust pipe. Everything south of my navel pulls taut, until the feeling bursts, spreading everywhere all at once.

He doesn’t ease off. He rides it out with me, and then a second orgasm builds, just as intense. The bike groans on its stand like it objects to all of this. The desert is so quiet, the only sounds are the wet movement of his fingers and the groans coming from my lips.

Then his fingers go from perfect to unbearable in a single stroke, and I clamp my hand around his wrist. “Too much.”

He brings his fingers to his mouth and drags his tongue across them. “That was one.”

He picks the condom up off the tank, tears it open with his teeth, and rolls it on without taking his eyes off me. “Up.”

I set my bare feet on the passenger pegs and lift my hips. The bike sways on its stand, and he puts a foot down to steady us, his hands at my waist taking half my weight like it’s nothing.

“Easy,” he says. “Come down slow.”

I take him in my hand, line us up, and sink.

He’s big. I knew that already, but knowing it and taking it are entirely different things.

I go down an inch at a time, thighs burning, and he holds himself still beneath me, letting me set the pace.

“Cassidy,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight.”

When I’m fully seated, stretched around him, it threatens to steal my breath.

“Is this what you imagined, baby?” he asks. “Fucking me on my bike?”

I roll my hips. “This is better than what I imagined.”

The sound he makes is feral, then he moves.

His hands clamp down on my hips, and he drives up into me. The pegs give me leverage, and I use it, rising and dropping to meet him. The bike rocks and creaks under us.

“You came home for this? You came home for my dick?” His hand fists in my hair and pulls my head back, his mouth dragging up my bared throat.

“Yes!”

“Say it.”

“Your dick feels fucking amazing, Crash. But I’m here for you.” It tears out of me on a thrust. “You. I came home for you.”

His kiss breaks our rhythm. He doesn’t apologize for it. He just builds a new one, faster, harder, his hands hauling me down to meet every thrust. There’s sweat at his temples, my palms slide on his shoulders.

Then he wraps an arm around the small of my back and tips me. His other hand snags his cut off the handlebars and shoves it between my shoulders and the tank before my skin touches metal, and I’m lying back with the whole sky of stars straight up, and the handlebars somewhere above my head. He rises over me, one boot still planted, and hooks my knee over his arm.