6. Cassidy
CASSIDY
His mouth is still on mine, and his hand closes in my hair.
I’m in his lap, facing him, the bike rocks on its stand every time either of us moves. The desert went cold the second the sun dropped. I don’t care. Everywhere he’s touching me is warm.
He breaks the kiss first. Holds me an inch off his mouth with both hands framing my face, breathing hard, and in the dark, his eyes are all pupil.
“Cass.” His thumb drags across my bottom lip. “Tell me to take you home.”
“No. You think I climbed onto this seat by accident?” I peel his hand off my face and put it on my thigh. Spread his fingers flat against the denim myself, press them down. “I’ve wanted this for a very long time.”
He looks at his own hand on my leg. “Saber—”
“Is not on this bike.” I lean in until my lips brush the shell of his ear, and I lower my voice. “I am. So, stop being a gentleman about it.”
He goes rigid under me. Every muscle.
“Careful,” he says.
“Or what?” I sit back so he can watch my mouth. “You’re going to give me exactly what I want?”
He squeezes my leg. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I think I do. Have you thought about fucking me, Crash?”
He laughs once. Rough, low, no humor anywhere in it. Then his hands move to my hips, and he drags me flush against him. The laugh is gone, and what’s underneath it is raw.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve thought about.” His mouth moves along my jaw while he says it.
“I’ve thought about peeling you out of these jeans and finding out if you’re as wet for me as I think you are.
” His teeth find my earlobe, drag, release.
“After we got back from Rosa’s, I stood in my shower with my fist around my cock thinking about fucking you, and I came so hard I had to brace a hand on the tile to stay standing.
That’s what I’ve been thinking about, Cassidy. ”
I roll my hips against him, and he’s already hard. And, oh, my God, his dick is huge.
“That what you wanted to hear?” he asks.
“Yes.” It comes out wrecked. I clear my throat and try again, and it comes out worse. “Yes.”
“Good.” His hands slide up under the hem of my shirt, thumbs tracing the underside of my bra, and he stops there.
Holds. “Because here’s how this works, Cassidy.
You started this. So, you don’t get to blush now, and you don’t get to go shy.
If I ask you a question, I want an answer out loud. Understood?”
“What if I don’t answer?”
“Then I stop whatever I’m doing until you do.” His thumbs brush against my nipples. “And baby, I promise you’re going to hate that.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re insufferable?”
“Constantly.” His teeth graze my jaw. “Take your shirt off before I tear it off.”
The cold shocks me the second the shirt clears my head. I drop it across the handlebars, and his hands are already there, palms hot, sliding up my ribs. He looks at me, the valley lights faint on the side of his face.
“Fuck,” he says. “Look at you.”
“You could do more than look.”
“I’m getting there, Cass. Let me have a minute.”
He pops the clasp of my bra one-handed, and then his mouth is on my breasts. He’s not gentle, and he’s not rough. He’s thorough, with teeth and tongue and that beard dragging across my skin until I’m squirming in his lap, grinding down against him.
His thick ridge under the denim is exactly where I need it, and the seam of my jeans is doing devastating work. If he keeps his mouth where it is, I’m going to come before I’m even naked.
“Crash.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t stop.
“Take your clothes off.”
He lifts his head. His grin shows up out of the dark. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“I really fucking do.” He sits back. “But I also like it when my women take commands. Strip. I want to watch.”
I climb down. The cold raises every hair on my body, and I stand in the open desert night and take my boots off, hopping once, graceless.
He watches me with his forearm slung over the tank.
Next, my jeans. I push them down my hips slowly, underwear with them, and step out, and now I’m bare to the night air in front of a man I’ve loved for a lifetime.
He doesn’t say anything for a second. The wind moves between us.
“Turn around,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I should tell him where to put the instruction. Instead, I turn, slow, arms loose at my sides. When I come around to face him again, he’s sitting forward over the tank with his forearms braced.
“Come here.” His voice is rough.
“You’re still dressed.”
“You’re stalling.”
“How am I going to fuck you if you still have your clothes on, Crash?”
That makes him stand. He shrugs out of his cut and lays it over the handlebars, then drags his shirt over his head. He has tattoos everywhere. Then he sits back down, unhooks his belt, gets a condom out of his wallet, and sets it on the tank. He opens his jeans and takes his cock out.
My mouth goes dry.
“Now come here,” he says.
I climb back into his lap, and I can’t get close enough, fast enough. His hand slides between my thighs before I’m even settled, two fingers dragging through me.
“Fuck.” He licks his bottom lip. “Fuck, Cassidy. So wet for me.”
“I need you to fuck me.”
“Don’t say shit like that, I’m trying to take my time.”
I shake my head. “Don’t take your time.”
“I’m in control, baby.” His fingers move, and my body answers. “You’re going to come on my hand first, with my fingers in your pussy. I want to give my dick something to look forward to.”
His fingers curl exactly right, and his thumb rolls slow circles over my clit.
His mouth keeps up a low, filthy commentary. How tight I am, how wet, and what he’s going to do once I’ve come for him.
Then his fingers crook and his thumb presses down, and my entire focus shoots to the sensations between my legs.
“There it is,” he says. “There it is, baby, give it to me.”
It catches me on an upstroke of his fingers, sooner than I’m ready, and I’m moving faster against his fingers, chasing the sensation.
My thighs clamp around his hips. My heel knocks the exhaust pipe.
Everything south of my navel pulls taut, until the feeling bursts, spreading everywhere all at once.
He doesn’t ease off. He rides it out with me, and then a second orgasm builds, just as intense. The bike groans on its stand like it objects to all of this. The desert is so quiet, the only sounds are the wet movement of his fingers and the groans coming from my lips.
Then his fingers go from perfect to unbearable in a single stroke, and I clamp my hand around his wrist. “Too much.”
He brings his fingers to his mouth and drags his tongue across them. “That was one.”
He picks the condom up off the tank, tears it open with his teeth, and rolls it on without taking his eyes off me. “Up.”
I set my bare feet on the passenger pegs and lift my hips. The bike sways on its stand, and he puts a foot down to steady us, his hands at my waist taking half my weight like it’s nothing.
“Easy,” he says. “Come down slow.”
I take him in my hand, line us up, and sink.
He’s big. I knew that already, but knowing it and taking it are entirely different things.
I go down an inch at a time, thighs burning, and he holds himself still beneath me, letting me set the pace.
“Cassidy,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight.”
When I’m fully seated, stretched around him, it threatens to steal my breath.
“Is this what you imagined, baby?” he asks. “Fucking me on my bike?”
I roll my hips. “This is better than what I imagined.”
The sound he makes is feral, then he moves.
His hands clamp down on my hips, and he drives up into me. The pegs give me leverage, and I use it, rising and dropping to meet him. The bike rocks and creaks under us.
“You came home for this? You came home for my dick?” His hand fists in my hair and pulls my head back, his mouth dragging up my bared throat.
“Yes!”
“Say it.”
“Your dick feels fucking amazing, Crash. But I’m here for you.” It tears out of me on a thrust. “You. I came home for you.”
His kiss breaks our rhythm. He doesn’t apologize for it. He just builds a new one, faster, harder, his hands hauling me down to meet every thrust. There’s sweat at his temples, my palms slide on his shoulders.
Then he wraps an arm around the small of my back and tips me.
His other hand snags his cut off the handlebars and shoves it between my shoulders and the tank before my skin touches metal, and I’m lying back with the whole sky of stars straight up, and the handlebars somewhere above my head.
He rises over me, one boot still planted, and hooks my knee over his arm.
He’s going to ruin me.
He drives in slow and deep, watching my face, learning what works.
He talks the whole time. Low and ragged, half of it filth, half of it worship.
“Touch yourself,” he says. “Rub your clit while I thrust in and out of you.”
I slide my hand down between us, and his eyes follow it.
And within seconds, another orgasm builds. It starts at the base of my spine this time, deeper than the first one, slower. My free hand finds the edge of the tank and holds on. His rhythm picks up a hitch.
He’s close too, fighting it, waiting me out.
“Let go, baby. Come with me.”
It begins low and rolls upward, slow and deep. My back bows off the tank, my heel digging into the back of his thigh, and his name comes out of me over and over.
He goes quiet, following me over seconds later with his rhythm coming apart, hips driving into me rough and uneven.
He comes with his face buried against my collarbone. I hold him there, fingers in his hair, his whole weight shaking against me, and for once in his life, he doesn’t have a single thing to say.
His heart slams against my chest.
I shiver, and he slides his cut out from under my shoulders and hangs it over them instead.
The leather smells like him. I grew up knowing exactly what it means when a woman wears a member’s cut, even for five minutes. If he understands what he just did, he gives no sign of it.
“You good?” he asks.
“Don’t fish for compliments.”
His laugh moves through both of us. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“That’s a yes.” I pull back enough to look at him.
He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, and his hand stays at the side of my neck, thumb moving along my jaw, and he looks at me so long the look starts to mean things. “You came back,” he says, mostly to himself.
He kisses my forehead.
We get dressed in stages—my jeans, his shirt, my bra fished off the ground, my shirt off the handlebars, my boots hunted out of the dirt, his belt.
I hand his cut back last, and he swings it on and becomes the Vice President of the Hellborn Kings again in one motion.
I watch it happen and tell myself the man from five minutes ago is still in there.
I’m buttoning my jeans when I ask, “So what do we do tomorrow?”
He’s quiet behind me. A few seconds. Long enough.
“That’s not a problem for right now,” he says. “Right now, I only want tonight.”
My whole body clenches.
Right now, I only want tonight.
He told me an hour ago, ten feet from this spot. He doesn’t make promises to women.
Everybody laughs, everybody leaves happy, and nobody cries when he leaves. I knew all of it before I climbed onto his bike, and I climbed on anyway.
I don’t cry. I am, if nothing else, my father’s daughter.
“Okay,” I say.
He looks at me a beat too long, half a question loading in his face.
I smile to placate him, let him know I’m okay. But I am not okay.
He kicks the stand up and fires the engine, and the noise saves us from anything else.
The ride down the mountain takes twenty minutes. I do it with my hands resting on his hips. Light. Polite. He doesn’t reach back this time to pull my arms around his waist.
I hold on exactly as much as the ride requires, and not one bit more.