Chapter 8
MASON
The second her tits settled against my back I knew the next three hundred miles were going to be pure torture.
No bra. Thin cotton already damp from the morning heat. And those nipples—hard, tight, unmistakable—pressed into me like they’d been waiting for an excuse. She went rigid, mortified, probably praying the helmet would swallow her whole.
I felt every inch of it. The soft weight of her. The way her breath caught. The faint tremor that ran through her arms when she realized I wasn’t moving away.
I should have said something smart. Teased her. Let her keep that sharp little shield she wore like armor.
Instead I started the bike.
The engine roared to life and the low, heavy rumble rolled straight up through the frame.
I felt the exact moment it hit her. Her thighs clamped down hard around my hips.
A tiny, broken sound slipped out of her—half surprise, half raw need—and she tried to bury it inside the helmet.
Her fingers dug into my stomach like she was anchoring herself against a storm.
She was wet. Soaked. I couldn’t feel it directly but I didn’t need to.
The way she shifted, the way her breath stuttered against my shoulder blade, the way her whole body melted and tightened at the same time told me everything.
It had been a long damn time for her. Her body was starving and the vibration was feeding it right against my back.
My cock thickened behind my zipper, heavy and aching in a way that had nothing to do with the road ahead. I shifted once, uselessly, and gripped the bars tighter.
This woman.
Smart as hell. Mouth like a whip. Looked at me like I was a problem she hadn’t decided whether to solve or set on fire.
And now she was wrapped around me, turned on and trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t.
I liked that more than I should. Most women saw the cut, the ink, the bike and threw themselves at me.
Sienna acted like wanting me was a personal failure and a scientific curiosity rolled into one.
Made me want her worse.
I dropped my hand over hers again, pressing her palms flat against my stomach so she’d stop trying to hold on with two polite fingers. “Hold here.”
My voice came out gravel-rough. Couldn’t help it.
She was breathing faster now. Short. Shallow. Fighting the urge to rock against the seat. I could feel the battle in every small movement—her trying to stay logical, her body saying fuck logic.
Part of me wanted to kill the engine, drag her off this bike, and give her exactly what she needed right there on the side of the road.
The rest of me—the part that actually respected the fire in her—knew I had to let her keep her pride.
For now.
I revved the throttle once more, felt her jolt hard against me, and let the smallest grin pull at my mouth where she couldn’t see it.
This ride was going to be long.
And I was going to enjoy every single mile of it.
The miles blurred. Heat, wind, dust, and the constant low thunder of the engine. Her body stayed glued to mine the whole time—thighs clamped tight around my hips, arms locked around my waist, those hard little nipples rubbing against my back with every bump in the road.
I kept my eyes on the blacktop, but my brain wouldn’t shut up.
A picture of Rylee kept burning behind my eyes like someone had taped it to the inside of my skull.
Her smiling in that bar in Albuquerque three days ago, the same smile she used to wear right before she sold club secrets to the highest bidder.
The same smile that cost me two brothers and left me with scars I still felt when the weather turned.
I didn’t do this shit anymore. I didn’t let women crawl under my skin. Trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
And yet here was Sienna—smart-mouthed, zero-bullshit scientist—panting against my shoulder blade like the vibration of the bike was about to make her come apart at the seams.
I liked it too much.
We’d been riding almost two hours when I spotted the old pullout and eased off the throttle. The bike slowed. I killed the engine. The sudden quiet felt louder than the pipes.
Sienna stayed wrapped around me for a second longer than necessary, then climbed off on shaky legs.
She yanked the helmet off. Her cheeks were flushed dark, hair stuck to her forehead in damp strands, chest still rising fast. She was panting.
Not from the sun. From the hours of that low, relentless rumble pressed right between her legs.
I pulled the water bottle from the saddlebag and handed it over. She took it without arguing, which told me exactly how far gone she was. She drank too fast, water spilling down her chin. Her thighs pressed together once, twice, like she was trying to hide how soaked she still was.
My cock throbbed behind my zipper. Three more hours of this and one of us was going to snap.
I made the call.
“Get back on.”
She blinked. “We’re not stopping for long?”
“Not here.” I jerked my chin toward the faint dirt track cutting off through the scrub. “This way.”
I knew the road. Old club stash house. Abandoned for years. Thick adobe walls, metal roof, no neighbors for miles. Perfect.
She climbed on without another word. Her arms came around me quicker this time, like her body had already voted and her brain was still catching up.
I turned down the dirt road. The bike kicked up a rooster tail of dust behind us. Five minutes later the low, weathered building came into view. I parked in the shade of the wall and killed the engine again.
Sienna pulled her helmet off fast. “Where are we?” Her voice was sharp but breathless. “What are you doing? You gonna burn me out here or something?”
I swung off the bike and faced her. She looked wild—flushed, pissed, and turned on all at once.
“No.” I stepped in close, backing her until her shoulders hit the sun-warmed adobe. “The way I see it, you don’t like me. I don’t trust you. Mutual hate.”
I planted one hand on the wall beside her head.
“But I think we both know there’s sparks between us and a fire that’s gonna burn for the next three hours unless we put it out.”
Her eyes widened. She licked her lips. “So you’re suggesting we put it out?”
I leaned in until our mouths almost touched. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
One heartbeat.
Then she grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me down.
Our mouths crashed together—hungry, messy, zero finesse.
Tongues sliding, teeth nipping, her hands fisting in my shirt while mine gripped her waist hard enough to bruise.
I shoved her back against the wall. She gasped into my mouth.
I dropped my head and sucked one of those tight nipples straight through her thin shirt, then shoved the fabric up and latched on skin to skin—hot, wet, greedy.
Sienna arched with a broken moan. “Fuck—Mason—”
I worked the other nipple with my fingers while I licked and sucked the first like I’d been dying to do since the second she climbed on behind me. She was grinding against my thigh, desperate.
I popped the button on her jeans, shoved my hand inside, and found her soaked. Dripping. My fingers slid through all that slick heat and she whimpered.
“Oh fuck, baby,” I growled against her breast. “You’re so goddamn soaked.”
I found her clit and circled it with two fingers—firm, fast, dirty.
Her head thunked back against the wall. Within seconds she was shaking, hips jerking, coming hard with a sharp cry that sounded exactly like the noise her damn cat made when it was pissed.
I kept rubbing her through it, milking every pulse until her legs gave out and she sagged against me, breathing like she’d run a marathon.
Before I could even straighten up, Sienna dropped to her knees right there in the dirt.
She had my belt open and my cock out in seconds. No hesitation. She looked up at me once—eyes dark, lips wet—and took me deep in one hot slide of her mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” I hissed, one hand fisting in her hair.
She sucked me like she was mad at me and starving for me at the same time. Messy. Noisy. Perfect. Sloppy and desperate and so fucking good I lasted about ninety seconds before I came hard down her throat with a guttural groan. She swallowed every drop, looking up at me the whole time.
We stayed like that for a long minute—sweaty, breathing hard, staring at each other like we’d both just survived a wreck we never saw coming.
I helped her up, fixed her shirt, watched her button her jeans with fingers that still trembled.
She met my eyes, a little dazed. “That… never happened.”
I smirked. “Agreed.”
Ten minutes later we were back on the bike.
The fire wasn’t gone. But it wasn’t burning us alive anymore.
I opened the throttle and pointed us toward Santa Fe.
For the first time since she’d climbed on behind me, the rest of the ride didn’t feel like torture.
It felt like the beginning of something I wasn’t sure I was ready for.