Page 95 of Shatter

The leather seat is warm from the sun when I climb on.

I sit sideways, my legs hanging off one side, and look at him over my shoulder.

He's already on his feet.

"Watch the pipe." He crosses the grass in three long strides and catches my calf, moving my leg a few inches away from the chrome. "It's still hot."

"Wouldn't want a scar in a weird place." I let him move me.

He huffs a laugh.

Then he steps between my knees.

He's wet and hard, the sun behind him, and his hands come to rest on my thighs.

He waits.

He always waits.

I reach behind me and flip open the other saddlebag, the one without the gun, and dig out his wallet.

There's a condom tucked behind his license.

I hold it up between two fingers.

"You were a Boy Scout." I raise an eyebrow at him. "Weren't you?"

"Walt made me carry one when I turned sixteen." His ears go red. "Habit."

Laughing, I hand it to him, and he tears it open and rolls it on with shaking fingers.

My underwear goes onto the blanket.

I hook my legs around his hips and pull.

He comes to me slowly, the head of his cock pressing against me, and I'm so wet from the water and his mouth, he slides in without any resistance at all.

We both groan.

The bike creaks on its kickstand.

"Okay?" His voice is shredded.

"Harder." I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs. "Don't be careful with me. Not today."

He looks at me for a second.

Checking.

Whatever he sees in my face, it's enough to convince him.

He pulls almost all the way out and drives back in, hard enough to rock the bike, and I cry out.

"Like that?" He does it again.

"Yes." My nails bite into his shoulders. "Fuck, yes, like that."

He finds a rhythm, deep and relentless, his hips slamming into mine.