Chapter Twenty Three
I tried to stop my hands trembling as I clutched his sides.
Wind rushed at me. The bike growled underneath me, angry rage vibrating up my legs.
This wasn’t like the little bike he’d had those years ago.
It didn’t screech like a banshee. This one gave orders.
And right now, those orders were to hold on tight as we escaped into the night.
Ryan barely paused. Slipping between lanes, not waiting for anyone to move out the way. He just moved round them. The bike glided beneath us, smooth and effortless. In control. Of us and the road.
I tucked my head behind Ry, his massive bulk creating a windshield. My fingers were numb from the rushing cold. That same cold infiltrating the cotton of my clothes and creeping under the wool of my coat. I didn’t know what speed we were doing, but I knew it was over the limit.
The man behind me stayed close. At times I could see him move into my peripheral vision, and Ryan would acknowledge him in wordless conversation.
He did it again as we left the Tyne Bridge, but this time he came up on our right and sat beside us.
Ryan’s head moved between watching the road and talking to the man on the big, black, and equally as loud bike next to us.
And then I felt the power feed into the bike, and I squeezed my arms around Ryan harder.
The man on the other bike pulled ahead, space forming between us and him until he was a speck in the distance and the only thing I could hear was the deep roar of Ry’s bike in my ears.
We moved from the faster road, Ryan making a series of turns down side streets until I’d completely lost my bearings.
At one point I thought we’d doubled back on ourselves, but then it had happened again, and I didn’t know whether I was up or down.
Just as I was starting to worry, the bike moved to the right of the road, and I caught a glimpse of the street we turned into with a motorbike at the very end.
Ryan slowed now, but the engine still growled. I watched each window we passed. Barely a curtain twitched or shadow flinched. A street used to motorbikes. He stopped almost at the end of the row of terraced cottages.
I slid off the back carefully, my legs unsteady for a second as the world caught up with me.
The air felt different here. Quieter, but not peaceful.
Like it held its breath rather than relaxed.
The houses were close, all joined to one another.
Old Tyneside cottages spreading back into tiny yards.
Some had been extended into the loft space, windows poking out of roofs, felt weatherproofing the wooden frames that now jutted out.
The street was tired. Paint peeling from window frames, brickwork worn soft with time and weather.
No neat lines. No polished edges. Just life, lived in and left to show it.
I glanced up the street, then down. No one outside.
No voices. No movement. But it didn’t feel empty.
It felt watched. Not in a way that made my skin crawl.
Not like earlier. I wrapped my arms around myself, more because of cold than fear, my eyes dragging over the details I didn’t recognise but somehow understood.
This wasn’t Ponteland. There were no wide drives or quiet cul-de-sacs here.
No space between people. Everything was closer. Tighter. Real.
My gaze flicked back to Ryan as he swung off the bike, completely at ease, like he belonged to every inch of this place. Like it had shaped him. And maybe that was what I felt. Not danger. Not really. Just the weight of where he’d come from.
“Everywhere checked out,” the man on the big shiny Harley Davidson spoke.
I recognised the bike. Or at least the seat. The design was different. Slightly feminine. Roses and barbed wire intertwined.
“We weren’t followed. Doubled back a few times to check,” Ryan replied.
“You going to be good here?”
“Aye. Safe as anywhere else. Need to get her in off the street now though.”
The other man nodded. “Nice to meet you, Sophie.” He swung his leg back over his bike.
“Magnet,” Ryan called just as the man’s hand poised over the key in his bike. “Ride safe, brother.”
“Always do, Reap. Speak later.”
He nodded again in my direction and then turned his hand, and the Harley gurgled to life, clearing its throat before settling into that rhythmical deep purr.
“Just go in,” Ryan pushed the front door open. “I’ll be right there. I’ll just put the bike round the back.”
The door closed behind me, shutting the night out but not the deep rumble of the motorbike that started up outside.
For a moment I stood still, my mind swimming.
Emotions threatening to overwhelm me, a familiar pressure building in my chest. Deep.
Strong. The rumble outside faded, moved.
And now everything slowed. Apart from my heart.
I could feel it pounding in my chest. In my ears.
In the ends of my fingers. And suddenly all I could hear was my own heartbeat.
But it was fading. Or maybe that was the light.
“Fuck! Sophie!”
Then again.
“Soph. Soph!” Louder now.
“Shit,” the voice was clearer now. Not so distant. “Fuck.”
I was spinning. No, I was moving. Travelling. Something soft at my back. Something brushing my face. I opened my eyes but saw nothing. Only black.
“Soph. Come on, darlin’.” I heard fear now. Panic. But it wasn’t me. Not quite.
I tried opening my eyes again. And this time the darkness flickered. Tiny pricks of light. It grew brighter. Bigger. But then a shadow again. Dark and looming.
“It’s me, Grey. You’re ok. It’s just me.”
I felt it clearly now. The thumb brushing over my lips, over my cheek. Carefully, like he worried it might hurt.
“What happened?” my voice was barely audible.
“I dunno. I just came back in, and you were on the floor.”
I nodded at the man staring at me, watching his eyebrows pull together in confusion.
“Panic attack.”
“Panic attack?”
“I have panic attacks. Sometimes I faint. I guess that’s what happened.”
“Shit. What do you need? What can I do?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. It happens sometimes.”
Ryan watched me, his eyes raking over my face, glancing over the top of my head, then back to my face.
“Honest, Ry. I’m fine now.”
“Jesus, fucking Christ, Sophie…” he breathed, dipping his head and resting his forehead against mine.
For a moment we stayed like that. Ryan leaning over the top of me, his hands wrapped either side of my face, his head against mine.
Just the pair of us breathing slowly. Until I moved my hands, the tips of my fingers brushing the leather of his cut.
It was rough under my hands. Worn. Bumps and holes like it had been through the wars.
He pulled his head from mine, eyes on me for a second and then to where my hands traced over the patches tightly sewn to the leather.
Northern Kings MC. I felt over the raised, embroidered letters and then onto the one below, feeling out each one.
Newcastle. I swapped my fingers to the other side, to the badge that was stitched there and the words that read Dirty Deeds Club.
His fingers brushed my wrists. Light at first, and then they gripped, pulling my hands away. From his chest and up over my head.
I exhaled, loudly and his grip tightened, crossing my wrists, and pinning both against the sofa cushion above my head with one hand.
“Don’t fucking scare me like that again, Grey,” he rasped, his eyes searching my face before pushing his mouth to mine.
He didn’t wait for me to open my mouth for him, his other hand securing my jaw as he nipped my lips, pushing his tongue into me when I parted them on a breath.
Already I whimpered. The sudden onslaught from his lips, the urgency of his tongue, and then the weight of him settling against mine, my body and arms restrained underneath him.
My stomach fluttered, and my heart pumped like a maniac.
A deep pressure building inside of me, flowing outwards through my veins, heat creeping through me like I’d been injected with something.
Ryan pushed his hips into me, denim pressing hard against the soft linen of my trousers.
My body already remembered what his fingers could do, a tingling dampness forming between us.
I wriggled a leg free, crooking it over his back and pulling him into me.
His tongue slowed for a moment, lips just pressed on mine, like he was thinking, or assessing.
His free hand left my face. It didn’t pass over my chest. Over my stomach.
It moved straight to the button between us, popping it open, the waistband of my trousers slackening and pushing underneath until I felt the rough pads of his fingers over the top of me, resting on the only material left between us.
“Soph,” he mumbled, his lips moving against mine, his beard scratching, and I breathed out, arching my hips upwards. “Fuck.”
Ryan didn’t need another invitation. Quickly, he hooked my knickers aside.
I felt the pressure on my pussy, but in an instant, he was inside me and I grunted.
He was slow at first, feeling his way with his fingers, plucking gently at my lips with his.
And then he changed. The angle of his fingers moving up inside me, thrusting hard and fast, hitting the top of my pussy over and over.
“Shit,” I cried out, a sensation washing over me.
Ryan didn’t stop, his fingers pulling up into me.
Faster and harder. Over and over. The pressure increased.
I thrashed under him. Unable to break my hands free.
Unable to touch him or push him away. And still he worked my pussy hard and fast. I felt a stab of pressure again and my legs shook, my body quivering.
I wanted to ride his hand and run from it all at once.
It was too much. Intimidating. Overwhelming.
I heard it before I felt it. Heard his fingers inside me and my pussy reacting.