22. 22
You Don’t Even Know Me - Faouzia (Stripped)
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
If you’d told me a few months ago—hell, even a few weeks back—that I’d be standing in a driveway outside a farmhouse, about to hop on the back of a motorbike, I would’ve laughed.
Or sworn. Probably both.
Yet, here I am—helmet strapped to my head, and heart thudding like a bloody drum.
It’s comical. All of it. The night. The fire. The way everyone acted like I belonged. The fact that I didn’t immediately retreat to my bubble.
“Alright,” Michael says, calm as anything, like this is a perfectly normal Tuesday. “Swing your leg over, like so—” He gestures, one arm holding the bike steady, the other loosely pointing to where I’m meant to go. “Then scoot forward a bit. Get comfy.”
Comfy. Right.
I try not to think about what that entails.
Awkwardly, I do as instructed, hiking my leg over like I’m mounting a wild beast—not a piece of Italian engineering—and settling onto the seat.
My balance shifts, and I have a brief moment of panic, arms flailing for something to grip, anything, before my hand lands on his shoulder. It’s solid. Steady. Warm.
“Atta girl. Now plant your feet up on the pegs.”
“The what?”
He gestures with a chuckle. “The little footrest things.”
Right. Obviously. Pegs. I do as I’m told, yet again, just as a thought pops into my mind. Michael is, without question, the most patient man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t huff or roll his eyes. Just waits.
Liam used to claim he was patient with me. That was a joke. Looking back, he seemed more inconvenienced than anything, like my feelings were some puzzle he didn’t have the time or energy to solve. Partners are meant to stick around, right? Suck it up when you spiral? Guess that never applied to me.
Once I’m seated, not at all comfortably, he swings one leg over and slides in front of me like it’s second nature. His body heat instantly bleeds into mine, even through the thick fabric of our clothes. My knees press into the sides of his hips, and my breath hitches.
The space between us? Non-existent.
I sit there, stiff as hell, arms folded across my chest like a complete idiot.
“The visor’s still up,” he says without looking back. “You’ll wanna close it when we ride.”
“Oh.” I fiddle with it clumsily. “The little flap thing?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, Freckles, the little flap thing .”
“Right. Obviously.”
He taps the top of my knee. “You’re gonna need to hold on.”
That gets my attention. I stare at the back of his head like it just grew horns. “Hold on?”
“Yeah. Y’know… arms around me,” he confirms, glancing back with that shit-eating grin. “Unless you plan on testing Wattle Creek’s asphalt.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why does this feel like an elaborate plan of yours?”
He laughs then. Deep and throaty. Husky in that unfair kind of way that scrapes over skin and sinks into bones.
It oozes out of him like confidence was stitched into every goddamn cell he’s got.
And I hate—absolutely hate —how it lights up every nerve ending in my body like a live wire.
How it pulls heat to the surface. How it makes me feel things I’ve worked too hard to bury. No. Nope.
Don’t go there, Zoe.
This is a favour. That’s it. Just like Imogen dragging me here tonight, Michael’s just being… helpful. Nothing more. He’s taking me home. That’s all. I inhale sharply and lift my hands, placing them tentatively on his sides.
Which is a mistake.
His torso is solid. Carved like granite. And the smell—God, the smell —it hits me the second I lean in. Cigarettes. Motor oil. But underneath it all… something that’s just him . Raw, masculine, familiar in a way that catches me off guard.
He tsks. “That’s not gonna cut it.”
I frown, about to ask what the hell he means, but I don’t get the chance.
His hands— his hands —close around mine.
Firm, but careful, pulling my arms tighter around him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My palms splay across his stomach, right over the fabric of his shirt.
The heat from his skin bleeds through and settles into my palms.
And suddenly, I forget how to breathe. Because it’s not just contact.
It’s connection.
Holy shit .
This isn’t casual. This isn’t flirty. This isn’t the dumb kind of touch that happens in clubs or awkward hugs or meaningless grazes. This is deliberate. This is him making sure I’m safe.
Secure.
And that realisation undoes me. Because I haven’t touched a man like this in… I don’t even know how long. Years, maybe. Not since—
No.
Not Liam. I need to piss off any thought of him from my mind. Because he doesn’t belong there anymore. Not ever. Especially in this moment. Because this isn’t that.
This isn’t begging someone to stay. This isn’t apologising for being too much. This isn’t shame wrapped in longing. No, this is different. It’s gentle. Simple. Oddly grounding.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
I’ve spent so long preparing for impact, for things to go sideways, for people to leave. And now, there’s Michael. Quietly anchoring me to the back of his bike with one steady touch, one patient breath, like it’s no big deal.
And yet for me… it kind of is.
My fingers twitch slightly, tightening out of reflex, and I feel his stomach flex beneath them. I hope he doesn’t notice.
“You ready?” His voice cuts through the chaos in my brain. It finds me in the middle of the storm I’ve built in my own chest.
I nod instinctively before realising— idiot —he can’t see that.
There’s a grin in his voice. “Words, Freckles. I need words.”
“Yes,” I say, this time with conviction, even if it’s all surface level. My insides are anything but steady.
“Good. Visor down.”
Right. The visor. I fumble for the latch, fingers trembling slightly as I yank it down.
It clicks shut with a soft snap, sealing me into this ridiculous helmet that suddenly feels a little too intimate.
The world muffles instantly. Dulls. Like I’ve slipped into another version of reality—one where I don’t think too hard, don’t panic, don’t look back.
Then I feel the shift beneath me.
The engine kicks to life with a low, guttural growl. It’s so bloody obnoxious and primal. The vibration moves through his back and into my chest, like I’m suddenly wired to him. Plugged directly into his pulse. Into this moment.
He revs once. Then again.
Jesus Christ .
Does it need to be that loud?
It’s so thunderous, I’m surprised the damn kangaroos aren’t fleeing for their lives, and the trees themselves aren’t uprooting in protest. So much for the quiet serenity of rural life—cue Michael Price tearing through the solitude of the Australian bush.
And just like that, we’re moving.
The bike lurches forward, not violently, but fast enough that my heart lurches into my throat. My arms, already curled around his waist, tighten on instinct. I don’t even think about it. I just hold on . Because it’s all I have to anchor me.
The air rushes past, sharp and cool, and laced with eucalyptus and dust. The scent of farmland and firewood and gravel sweeps through the night, the breeze slicing through the denim at my knees. Every part of my body feels alive, like my nerve endings have been jolted awake after years of sleep.
We arrive at mine in exactly five minutes.
Safely , I must reluctantly add, and I carefully hop off the bike.
My knees are stiff, but my whole body is buzzing with adrenaline that I’m pretending I don’t feel.
Michael’s already off, moving with what I’ve come to notice is his usual annoyingly relaxed swagger.
He reaches for the helmet gently, fingers brushing beneath my chin as he unclips the strap.
I stay perfectly still, eyes locked on his face from behind the visor.
My breath stutters—not from surprise, but from something else entirely.
He pulls the helmet off, and I readjust the strands of my hair.
“How’d you find that?”
“Fine.”
He smirks, as if he sees straight through my lie. “Just fine, huh?”
I shake out my arms and legs, trying to pretend my pulse isn’t still thundering from the ride.
The truth? It was exhilarating. Not that I’d admit that to just anyone.
There’s a flutter of something in my chest. The kind of feeling that makes your brain race ahead before your body can catch up.
Like a domino in slow motion, tipping into something dangerous.
I feel… special. As pathetic as that sounds, I do.
There’s a small part of me—tiny, stupid, and embarrassingly loud—that already wants to do it again.
Of course, my brain decides to sabotage me. Because if I’ve ridden it, how many others have? And then, because my brain and mouth are like estranged siblings who only communicate through chaos, I blurt—
“I can just imagine how many women have ridden on the back of your bike.”
Oh my God.
What the actual fuck, Zoe?
That confident woman who once stood tall in meeting rooms, who could navigate a team of middle-aged women and men— that woman is gone. We’ve already established that, but this? This is different. He visibly stills.
That’s when I know I’ve overstepped, and I immediately regret every decision that led me here.
His gaze flicks up to meet mine. “None.”
“What?” My stomach tightens. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious.”
It knocks the wind from my chest. I hate that it matters. “So why’d you let me?”
“Because I wanted to.”
That… doesn’t help. At all. My pulse flickers—a subtle stammer under my skin—and I clear my throat, desperate for something, anything, to fill the silence stretching tight between us.
He stands so casually, helmet tucked under one arm, all loose-limbed confidence and calm.
Meanwhile, I feel like my bones are vibrating.
I need to retreat. Mentally. Physically.
Just… get out of my own head. And I don’t know why I ask this—truly, I don’t—but the words tumble out anyway.