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Being on the back of a motorcycle is freeing, and I’ve really enjoyed seeing the less populated areas of San Diego. We ended up leaving Arran’s tattoo shop around ten tonight once I was done talking to the guys, so it was quieter on the back roads he drove out on.

Arran gives me his hand to help me up, his arm easily wrapping around my waist to bear my weight as I get used to standing. He pulls off my helmet and sets it on the ground, his eyes narrowing as he gazes at me.

“What do you want me to call you?” he asks, lifting me onto the back of the bike to face him.

“Noor when it’s us,” I say, watching his face to see if any of this is too much. I wouldn’t blame him if it was. “Isla in public. Ah, I might need to tell you about something else.”

“Bring on the truth bombs, birthday girl.” His hands push the jacket I’m wearing down until it’s off, and then Arran leans toward me, leading me to lay down on the seat of the bike. He’s careful to fix the jacket so it’ll pillow my head, and I can’t help but think about how much he cares about my comfort. He’s constantly watching me, focused on what I may need next, somehow knowing what that may be before I do.

He’s standing between my legs, and I raise them to wrap around his waist. His lips twitch as he straightens up, but he waits patiently for me to tug him closer. He raises my skirt up slowly until it bunches around my thighs, enjoying the view as if he’s unwrapping a present.

“I paint for a living. I have a pretty famous pseudonym for the canvases that I sell.” I watch his face, but his lips curl and his eyes shine with pride.

“Good for you. That’s smart. Is that how you have been able to stay hidden from them for so long?”

“My house isn’t in my name, or in Isla’s,” I explain. “Emil has it set up under something else.”

“A lot of houses are bought under investment management properties or shell company names in this area,” he confirms with a shrug. “No one would bat an eye at this. You’re a single woman who doesn’t need anyone able to look up your deed to find you. Since you have stalkers, I have to say your family thought of just about everything.”

“Are you… mad I didn’t tell you?” I ask tentatively.

“Mad? No, why would I be?” he asks, shaking his head, his hands massaging my skin. I raise my hips to get him to touch more of me, but he won’t. Instead, he keeps talking. Ugh. “You don’t owe me this information. I want you safe, and that’s what you’ve been doing. Every day, I get to watch you walk past my business. Sometimes, you’re walking to yoga class, other times you’re teaching or just chatting as you shop. But you’re safe and fucking thriving.

“San Diego has kept you from men that disappointed and hurt you. Your body was vibrating with emotions in my arms while you spoke to those punks, Noor. See? Any name you call yourself is beautiful, baby. Anyway, I’m not mad. Can I see your art sometime?”

“Yes…. Ah!”

Arran’s lips twitch as his thumb runs up the gusset of my panties. I know he can feel how wet I am as his tongue swipes over his bottom lip and his eyes drop down to watch the wet patch there grow.

“I want to be clear about something, okay?” he asks, his eyes intense as he gazes at me. He waits until I nod until he takes a deep breath. “I’m pissed they hurt you, but this isn’t my history with them. It’s yours. If I beat my chest and make it about me, then I’m not giving you what you need. So instead, I’m keeping you safe by being your middle ground between them. They have to speak with me in order to open up communication with you. It’ll give you time to decide if you really want to give them another shot, or if we pretend today didn’t happen. Either way, it's your decision and yours alone.

“Last serious question. Have you ever been fucked on top of a motorcycle?” he asks, his voice deep and raspy.

“No,” I say, gasping as his thumb grazes over my clit. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

“Mmhmm. I think it’s very necessary. Did those assholes take your virginity, baby?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about that though,” I breathe, feeling the cooler air as he pulls away my panties to expose my pussy.

“You never have to tell me anything you don’t want to. However, I don’t want to step on an emotional land mine, Noor,” he says, pulling my legs open and planting my heels down on the back of the bike to keep them open. “Do you understand?”

I nod, raising my head to watch him as he leans down and spreads my pussy lips wide with his thumbs. I’m beginning to breathe harder in anticipation as he blows on my very sensitive skin, loving the way he looks at me.

“Words, baby,” he grunts, pulling his belt from his pants as I begin to pant.

“You don’t want to trigger me,” I whisper.

“I don’t want to fucking hurt you,” he growls, showing me the belt as he fashions it into a pair of cuffs. I bite the inside of my lip as I watch him, knowing I trust him. He’s given me no reason to make me believe I shouldn’t, and I always trust my gut. “Can I use these on you?”

“Yes.” I relax on the bike, forcing myself not to arch my back like a bitch in heat as he leans over me to tighten the belt loops around my wrists. It doesn’t hurt at all, and then he’s pressing my hands above my head in silent warning not to move them.

“Will you be my very good girl and keep your wrists here?” he asks, rubbing his cheek against mine.

I used to hate and rail against being anyone’s good girl. It always led to the relinquishing of power that would hurt me in some way. Believe it or not, this is something I’ve worked on in therapy. There’s no judgement when I bring up something like this to my therapist, he simply goes with it.

“Yes,” I moan, watching as he ghosts his hands down my body. Arran systematically fucks with my clothing to give himself access for his nipping teeth and the lap of his tongue. My shirt is rucked up my torso, my bra shoved to expose my breasts, and my skirt is bunched at my waist.

My body writhes under his constant attention, my nipples as hard as diamonds as he rubs his face against them until I’m begging him for more.