13. Lydia
THIRTEEN
LYDIA
T rip hasn't messaged me in ten days.
Not a word. Not a snap. Not even a half-assed emoji.
Just thirst traps.
Short, sharp bursts of visual violence, the flex of his jaw under that black tactical mask, the sound of leather gloves tightening, the hint of a hard chest glistening in low light. Always posted late at night. Always paired with captions like:
“You moan his name. But you come for mine.”
“You’ll beg when you’re ready to be used.”
Every single one of them left me aching. Wet. Cursing into my pillow with my fingers buried deep inside myself.
But not a single one has my name.
He’s vanished into that carefully controlled silence that feels like punishment, like he’s watching me spiral without ever lifting a finger.
But Patrick? Patrick is everywhere.
He texts every morning before I open my eyes.
[7:12 AM]
Morning, trouble. I had a dream about your thighs again. You owe me a ruined pair of boxers.
He sends gifts without asking. Weed, food, lingerie. The last package he sent included a candle that smelled like sex and smoke, and a handwritten card.
I want to melt you. Light you. Keep you burning for me.
I hate how much it works.
Because I crave the silence from Trip like a fucking drug.
But Patrick is loud. Present. Relentless.
And when he messages me that night…
Come out with me. Just us. I want to make you feel something real.
I say yes before I can stop myself.
When he pulls up outside my place on the motorcycle, I nearly come on sight.
Black matte Ducati. Sleek as hell. Purring low like a goddamn sex toy with wheels.
He wears a black jacket, tight jeans, and gloves that creak when he flexes his hands. His helmet is tinted, hiding his face until he pulls it off, and then I see him.
Patrick is beautiful in a way you don’t expect.
Sharp jaw, sculpted cheekbones, stubble trimmed to perfection. His blue eyes are brighter at night, cutting through shadows like headlights.
“You gonna stare all night or get on?” he asks with a smirk, handing me the second helmet. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask.”
I slip it on and climb on behind him, thighs gripping the bike seat, chest pressing flush against his back. He hands me a helmet and I slide it over my head, not caring about helmet hair.
The rumble of the engine between my legs is obscene. I wrap my arms around his waist and swallow a moan.
We speed off. No destination. Just winding roads, cold wind, and the warmth of his body under my palms.
Every time he shifts gears, I feel the tension in his core. Every bump in the road sends vibrations straight through my pussy.
By the time we pull off the road into a shadowy overlook, I’m soaked through my leggings.
My pulse is racing. My hands are sweating. My thighs are trembling from how hard I’d clung to him.
And I want him.
God, I want him.
The trees rustle around us, the city lights blinking below like a thousand forgotten stars. It’s dark. Private. Ours.
I slide off the bike, heart pounding, trying to laugh it off.
“That was insane. My thighs are gonna vibrate for a week.”
Patrick pulls off his helmet, grinning. “Good. I like when you’re shaking.”
He steps into me, one hand gripping my jaw, the other sliding around my waist.
“I’ve been dreaming about you,” he murmurs, lips brushing mine. “You. On this bike. Moaning into my shoulder. Telling me to go faster.”
He kisses me.
Hard.
Hot.
Possessive.
His tongue pushes into my mouth like he owns the space. Like I’ve already said yes.
And maybe I have.
He spins me around, bending me slightly over the gas tank of the bike, his chest pressed to my back, cock hard against my ass.
I gasp as he bites down on my shoulder through my shirt.
“Tell me to stop.”
I don’t.
I moan instead, grinding back against him.
“Good girl.”
He yanks my tank top up and over my head in one motion, exposing my tits to the cool night air. My nipples harden instantly. He sucks one into his mouth, biting gently, tongue circling.
Then he drops to his knees behind me.
“Open your legs.”
I do.
He slides my leggings down over my ass and thighs, growling when he sees my soaked black thong.
“Fuck, Lyd…”
He presses his mouth between my thighs, tongue flattening over the thin fabric before dragging it aside and licking a fat, slow stripe over my cunt.
I cry out, legs shaking, fingers digging into the bike seat.
His tongue works fast, deep, messy, needy. He flicks my clit until my legs buckle, then shoves two fingers inside me and curls them up.
I come hard, so hard I scream, my pussy pulsing around him, dripping down his hand.
But he isn’t done.
He stands, undoing his jeans, and pulling his cock out, thick, veiny, perfect. He rubs it against my entrance, teasing me with the head.
“You want it?” he asks, voice low.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Fuck me. Please.”
He slides in deep. One thrust. No hesitation.
I scream again.
He fucks me fast bent over the bike, one hand around my throat, the other on my hip, pulling me back against him.
The sound of skin slapping echoes in the night.
“Say my name.”
“Patrick.”
“Say it again.”
“Patrick. Patrick. Don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop,”
I come again, full-body shaking, and he groans as he buries himself inside me and lets go. Filling me with heat, with want, with everything I haven’t known I crave.
He holds me for a long time after.
Arms wrapped around me. Breathing hard. His lips soft on my neck.
And then comes the whisper.
“Be mine.”
I blink. “What?”
“Trip’s not texting you. I am. I’m showing up. He’s playing games. I’m not. I want you, Lydia. All of you. No more almosts . No more waiting.”
I look into his eyes. He looks steady. Real. Sure.
And I…
I don’t want to feel abandoned anymore.
“…Okay.”