Chapter 28 RideDie
Chapter twenty-eight
Ride or Die
Zane
Making her come on my bike under stars was a religious experience.
We're at the desert overlook, the one that shows the whole city spread out like a circuit board of bad decisions and neon promises.
It's midnight, she's wearing that leather jacket I bought her—the one she protested was "too much" before putting it on and never taking it off—and she's straddling my bike backwards, facing me, looking like every fantasy I've never admitted to having and several I've extensively plotted.
"This is dangerous," she says, but her hands are already working my belt, that specific determination that means her medical brain has gone offline and her disaster protocol has engaged. "Also, probably illegal. Definitely inadvisable. My risk assessment is writing its resignation letter."
"Everything about us is dangerous," I remind her, lifting her slightly so she can pull my jeans down enough. The bike shifts under our weight, chrome and danger and the best worst idea we've had this week. "When has that stopped us?"
"Never. My prefrontal cortex has filed for workers' comp." She's shimming out of her jeans with the flexibility of someone whose yoga practice has apparently prepared her for motorcycle sex. "Someone could see."
"Let them," I growl, because the thought of someone seeing her like this—desperate for me, taking what she needs—makes something primal in my chest roar with satisfaction.
"You know what's fucked up?" she gasps as she positions herself over me, no condom in sight because we've apparently decided protection is for people with functioning amygdales.
"I spent all day at work calculating my fertility window.
I'm at peak ovulation. Like, my cervical mucus could be used as a fertility clinic advertisement. And here I am, about to—"
She sinks down onto me before finishing the sentence, and the rest of her medical statistics disappear into a moan that echoes across the desert. The city lights below us blur as she takes me completely, no barrier, just skin and terrible decisions and her extremely fertile reproductive system.
"Don't let me fall," she breathes against my neck, and there's more in those words than just physics.
"Never," I promise, gripping her hips to keep her balanced, and mean it in ways that should terrify me more than they do.
She sets a rhythm that has the bike's suspension protesting, her hands gripping my shoulders for leverage. The leather jacket creaks with her movements, and the sound mixes with her little gasps and moans that she's trying to muffle against my neck.
Inside her head, I know she's calculating—she told me earlier how her brain never fully shuts off, how she counts heartbeats during orgasms, notices respiratory patterns during foreplay.
Right now she's probably noting my elevated pulse, the way my pupils are dilated despite the darkness, the exact angle that makes her cervix light up like a Christmas tree.
"Good girl," I murmur when she takes me deeper, changing the angle so I hit that spot that makes her whole body shudder. "Take what you need. Use me."
"Not—fuck—not using you," she gasps, but her pace increases, desperate now, chasing that edge with single-minded focus. "This is mutual destruction. Synchronized disaster. We're like...fuck...like biological warfare against common sense."
"Perfect," I finish, because we are. Two disasters creating something beautiful in the wreckage, her pussy clenching around me like she's trying to extract my DNA through sheer determination.
"My hippocampus is filing a formal complaint," she pants, "while my vagina is writing thank-you notes in calligraphy. Do you know—oh god right there—do you know what the pregnancy probability is for unprotected sex during peak ovulation?"
"Tell me," I growl, thrusting up to meet her rhythm.
"Thirty—fuck—thirty percent. We're playing reproductive roulette with—oh my god I'm going to—"
The orgasm hits her hard—I feel it in the way her whole body locks up, the way she bites my shoulder to muffle her scream, the way she pulses around me so tight I see stars that have nothing to do with the desert sky.
I follow immediately, couldn't stop if I wanted to, filling her while the city watches from below, adding another load to what she graphically described earlier as "a fertility clinic's worth of genetic material. "
We stay frozen for a moment, both panting, her forehead pressed against mine. I can feel myself leaking out of her already, making a mess of my bike's seat that I'll never clean because I'm apparently sentimental about terrible decisions.
"That was—"
"Incredible," I finish.
"I was going to say reproductively irresponsible," she corrects, but she's smiling, that post-orgasm softness that makes her look younger. "But yeah, also incredible."
"Another round of fertility roulette," she adds, like we haven't been playing this game since the first night. "During peak ovulation. My egg is probably doing a victory dance right now."
"We never do anymore."
"We should."
"We won't."
"No," she agrees, settling against me properly now, her back to my chest as we look at the city. "We won't. We're disasters with a death wish and apparently a breeding kink."
My phone buzzes.
Dylan: Need advice about school. Can we talk?
My nephew. The one good thing I've managed not to destroy. Yet.
Tomorrow. Breakfast
Dylan: Cool. Bringing homework
Of course you are
Lena reads over my shoulder. "Nephew?"
"Sister's kid. Nineteen, too smart for his own good, thinks I'm cooler than I am."
"You're raising him?"
"More like preventing him from following my footsteps." I pause, then add, "His mom died when he was ten. She was my sister. Club violence."
She turns to look at me, those eyes cataloging this new information with medical precision. "That's why you understood. About my parents."
"Death by MC lifestyle is its own special kind of tragedy."
She kisses me then, soft and understanding, and it's more dangerous than the unprotected sex we just had. This is how hearts get involved. This is how disasters become destinies.
We ride back toward the city, her arms wrapped around me, her body pressed against mine, and I can feel my cum leaking out of her onto my bike. She shifts, whispers in my ear, "I can feel you dripping down my thighs. It's going to soak through my jeans. Your DNA is literally everywhere."
It's only later, after I've dropped her at her apartment with a kiss that turned into fingering her against her door until she came again, that my phone buzzes.
Ghost: Her bro saw you at the overlook
Ghost: With her
Ghost: The whole thing
Ghost: This is getting complicated
Miguel?
Ghost: Had eyes on you for the last hour
Ghost: Watched you fuck her on your bike
Ghost: Didn't intervene but he saw everything
Ghost: Be careful, brother
Fuck. Miguel watching us, seeing his sister come apart on my bike, knowing we're still together despite his ultimatum. This is going to explode.
Dylan wants to meet you properly tomorrow
Lena: The nephew?
Only family that matters
Lena: Breakfast?
My place. 9 AM. Fair warning - he's too smart for his own good
Lena: So he'll definitely know we're fucking?
Probably
Lena: Great. Meeting family while your cum is still inside me from tonight. Peak disaster timing
Also, Miguel was watching us tonight
The three dots appear and disappear several times.
Lena: I know. I saw his bike when I came
And you didn't stop?
Lena: Did you want me to stop?
Never
Lena: Then it doesn't matter who watches
Lena: We're already burning everything down
Lena: Might as well give them a show
Lena: Plus my exhibitionist kink was apparently activated
Lena: My therapist will have a field day with this
This woman. This beautiful, disastrous woman who fucks me on my bike while her brother watches and makes jokes about therapy.
Tomorrow she meets Dylan. Sees my world. Probably gets pregnant if we keep this up.
Tonight, I sit on my bike that smells like sex and her perfume and plan all the ways I'm going to make her come tomorrow.
Because some things are worth burning for.
And Lena? Lena's worth the whole world in flames.
Plus whatever child support payments are probably in my future.