Chapter 28 Vaughn
VAUGHN
This was a bad idea.
The worst idea ever.
I only suggested we go out to distract Yulian because the damn guy wouldn’t stop fucking me.
It doesn’t matter how many times we go, he’ll be ready in minutes flat, demanding one more round.
And I’m sore and, frankly, tired. I haven’t slept much since the flight, and the marathonic sex isn’t helping in allowing me to recover.
Even when I tried to swim in the indoor pool, Yulian barged in—literally cannonballing, drenching the place. Then he was all over me, teasing, touching, trying to seduce me. Not that I have a ton of self-control around him, but at least I’ve got more than he does.
He’s like a ball of energy that won’t just sit down and do nothing.
And truthfully, I admire that about him—his boundless enthusiasm, the way he bulldozes through life without hesitation. He’s everything I’m not, and where I once saw that as reckless weakness, I now see it as awe-inspiring.
But not right now.
Not when he lets go of the handlebars, his arms flung wide, embracing the air while the bike tears forward at a terrifying speed.
My arm wraps around his stomach tightly as I start to reach over, then remember I know nothing about motorcycles and sit back down, holding on to him with both hands.
“Stop it, Yulian,” I shout over the wind.
“Come on, it’s fun!”
“It won’t be fun when we die.”
He laughs, the husky sound swallowed by the wind. “So dramatic.”
Thankfully, he grips the handlebars again. Not so thankfully, he guns the speed, weaving between the few cars on the highway, each near miss sending my pulse into overdrive.
“Slow down!” I shout, hitting his chest.
“Ow.” He pats my thigh, then grabs it, squeezing slightly, and a rush of apprehension cuts through me, soaking me through.
One thing I truly don’t hate about this is having my thighs pressed up to his, his back flush against my chest, my hands glued to his abs that I can still feel through the gloves and leather.
“Stop thinking and feel the wind, Mishka!” he shouts, his hand going back to the handlebars. I’m glad he’s not driving with one hand, but I can’t fight off the disappointment at the loss of it on me.
Honestly, what the hell?
I’m the one who suggested we go for a ride, so he’d get distracted and stop thinking about fucking. I meant a ride in my car, but Yulian, being Yulian, said, “That’s so boring, let’s go on this baby instead.”
It’s not a “baby,” it’s a motorcycle. An inert, unfeeling object.
But I didn’t say that, because Yulian was so excited about the prospect of showing me around.
We suited up in leather—I insisted since he’d planned to ride half naked like the reckless bastard he is.
Now I’m wondering if there’s more protection out there beyond the jacket, boots, and helmet, because Yulian rides like he’s begging for death.
The highway lights smear past in our periphery as he tears ahead, and I thank whatever’s holy that the road is nearly empty this late, almost early morning.
“Woo-hooo!” His cry rips through the night as the bike roars faster, the wind battering my face.
“Feel that?” he shouts, tapping my thigh once more.
“Our imminent deaths? Yeah, crystal clear!”
He laughs, the deep, husky sound carrying in the night. “The wind, Mishka. The wind. You have to let go to enjoy it.”
“And die? No, thank you!”
“We’re all gonna die anyway. Better enjoy what time we have! That sounded so wise and smart, right? Right?” He laughs again, seeming so proud of himself.
I squeeze my grip around his waist. “Slow down!”
“Hugging me close will only get me fired up!”
He speeds until I’m so sure we’re definitely crashing.
My eyes slam shut as I cling to him, my fingers digging in so hard, it must hurt, though he doesn’t notice, too busy ripping through the night at a speed meant for committing suicide.
He’s so fucking unhinged, irresponsible—I can’t believe he’d planned to go on this ride with no leather on—and entirely incompatible with my safe, thought-out lifestyle.
Yet the heat of his back bleeding into my chest, my palms spread over his abs, gives me a sense of belonging I’ve never known. As if this is the exact place where I should be—as illogical as that sounds.
And it is illogical. Yes, sex with Yulian is the best sex I’ve ever had, but that’s just sex.
Or is it?
Because I don’t think it’s only the physical contact that’s slowly but surely turning me into a sex addict.
Or more like a Yulian addict.
He finally slows down, but only because he’s driving toward a rest area. “Need some fuel.”
“Of course you do after you burned it all with the irresponsible speed.”
He slows to a halt in front of one of the slots, and I release a breath, sagging against him.
While I don’t think I minded the ride at the end, that was definitely too reckless for my liking.
“Uh, baby?” His voice filters in the empty silence. “I’d love to have you all pressed up to me all night long, but I kind of need to get some fuel. Just give me one minute flat, and I’ll be done.”
Fuck.
I shove away from him and swing off the bike, my legs not entirely steady. He catches my arm to keep me upright.
“Easy. Takes time to get used to it.”
“I’m fine.” I swat him off. “Just needed to catch my breath.”
Yulian strips off his helmet, his hair damp and wild, tossing it like he knows just how lethal the sight is. His leather jacket strains over cut muscle, his jeans riding low, his boots planted firm. He looks straight out of a damn commercial. Rugged, masculine, and devastatingly…stunning.
“Catching your breath from how hot I look?” He props his chin in the crook of his thumb and finger, grinning.
I remove my helmet and hit him with it across the chest. “From how irresponsibly you drive.”
“Nah, come on, the whole point of having this baby is to drive her fast.” He strokes the bike ever so lovingly.
I narrow my eyes. “It’s a motorcycle.”
“Duh.” He clutches the helmet, but I don’t release it.
“A motorcycle isn’t a real person, Yulian.”
“Yeah…and?”
“And you shouldn’t call it baby.”
He laughs so loud, he topples over with it. The sound is contagious, but I shove him again, this time yanking the helmet from him and placing it on the bike.
“It’s not that funny,” I say, trying to sound stern, but really, I could watch him laugh all day.
He wipes the corner of his eye with the glove. “It is funny to see you jealous of my bike.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Might need to hide her before you set her on fire like poor Zver.”
“It’s an it, not a her.”
“You’re so jealous, you look like you’ll burst into flames.” He chuckles again, flicking me on the nose. “You’re so fucking adorable.”
I swat his hand away.
“Seriously, though, broke my heart when you killed Zveroushka.”
“You actually gave a bike a diminutive form?”
“Hell yeah. Poor thing died so young.” He sighs, then grins. “She probably would’ve agreed to sacrifice herself if it meant you’d end up right here with me.”
“Again, the motorcycles are ‘it,’ Yulian.”
“No, I name my beautiful ladies.” He strokes the bike again, and I’m honestly so damn annoyed, it’s insulting. “Didn’t name her, though, so as not to taint Zver’s memory…Hey! You can do it.”
“I’m not naming your bike.”
“Then I’ll just continue to call her baby.”
“Chaos.” I hit him upside the head. “Just go with something that fits you.”
“Hear that, Chaos? Daddy number two is jealous, but Daddy number one will always love you,” he croons, rubbing his hand all over the bike, and I kick him in the shin.
“Ow! You’re a menace.”
“I’ll pay for the fuel and grab us something to drink.”
I’m already walking toward the store, doing my best to hide the ridiculous rush of feelings his sweet talk to a bike stirs in me. He doesn’t even talk to me like that.
Irrational.
Everything about him makes me fucking irrational.
The store is quiet aside from the buzzing of the fluorescent light and the sound of the fridge. I grab two bottles of kombucha and head to the register.
The guy looks up from his phone and beams at me from behind the glass. He can’t be older than his early twenties—bleached hair, chipped black nails, and silver rings crowding every finger.
“Heya,” he says when I pass him the bottles.
“Hi. I’ll also pay for the gas at pump four.”
“Gas? Oh, you mean petrol.” He laughs like he’s dealt with this countless times.
“Yes. That.”
“You got it.” He scans one bottle, then jerks his chin toward Yulian, who’s just slotting the gas pump back into place. “That your boyfriend?”
My throat goes dry, my wallet halfway out.
The guy—Harry, if his name tag is to be trusted—must catch the stiffness in me, because he raises both hands in mock surrender.
“No hate, man. I’m gay, and I love seeing attractive guys. We don’t get that many around here. You’re both so bloody hot—I mean that as a compliment. I swear.” He chews on his nails as he steals a look at Yulian again, and the prick uses that exact moment to shake his hair.
Why does he even need to do that right now?
Harry doesn’t say the obvious part out loud. He thinks we’re both hot, but Yulian is his type, because he’s got those heart eyes while checking him out, biting his lip and everything.
I glare at Yulian. Fucking attention whore.
No matter what I do to drive people away from him, they keep circling him like hawks.
I clear my throat, and Harry finally tells me my total, so I tap my card on the screen.
As he hands me the bottles, he pauses. “Listen, if he’s not your boyfriend or you guys are open, can I get his number—”
“He’s mine. Back off.” I yank the bottles from his hands and walk out before I punch him in the face.
Fucking hell, what’s this violent version of myself I can barely recognize?
I nearly snarled at the poor dude. Maybe I actually did snarl.
Honestly, what the hell?
As soon as I approach Yulian, I resist the urge to devour him so Harry can see and not have any funny ideas. Then, just in the last split second, I remember we’re in public and just punch Yulian with the bottle against his stomach.