Chapter 14 Apparently I Have a Thumbprint Kink—Thanks, Booktok
AMANDA
Chad—or whoever the hell he is—pulls up to my apartment and cuts the engine of his bike.
The sleek white machine beneath us is all aggressive lines and predatory power.
It’s the modern equivalent of a white horse, if your knight traded his armor for leather and his steed for something German engineered.
The city hums around us with its usual symphony of sirens, honking, and someone screaming about the Mets, but for the first time all night, I don’t want to move.
Because, surprisingly and at the expense of my sanity, I had a really fucking good time.
Like, actually amazing. A night that makes you question every other date you’ve ever been on.
Which is horrible news for my carefully constructed walls, built to keep emotions out.
It would have been way easier if he’d been some total creep, some sweaty basement-dweller.
If he’d done even one weird thing—asked me to rate his podcast, told me how much he could deadlift, worn cargo shorts—I could have written the whole night off, gone home, and had a nice, normal breakdown about my dating record.
But no. Instead, he was infuriatingly mysterious. Frustratingly hot in a way that made my brain short-circuit. And way too good at making me want what I have absolutely no business wanting.
Like, for example, to know what he looks like under that helmet. Or, more accurately, to climb him like a tree and see what happens. Or, most dangerously, to let myself become real enough to get hurt again.
Fuck my entire life.
Neither of us moves, and I realize I’m still holding on to him, arms wrapped around his waist like I’m a koala who’s found her eucalyptus tree and refuses to let go.
I force myself to release him, fingers reluctantly untangling from the leather of his jacket as I swing my leg over and step onto the pavement.
My legs feel embarrassingly shaky. I tell myself it’s from the adrenaline of the ride.
It’s absolutely not from the ride.
He dismounts a second later, his movements all calm confidence and controlled grace.
He’s so damn fluid about everything, like every step, every shift of his body is choreographed by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
The way he stands, the way he tilts his head—it’s all calculated, all quiet dominance wrapped in black leather.
And I cannot take it anymore. I need to see his face. Need it the way people need oxygen or coffee or functional Wi-Fi.
I hesitate for exactly half a second, which is basically a new record for me in terms of self-restraint. Then, before I can overthink it, I reach for his helmet again.
And just like last time, he stops me. But this time? This time, it’s different.
His hands don’t snap to my wrists in that commanding way that made my brain malfunction earlier. He doesn’t grip me hard or make some dramatic show of control that would probably end up in my spank bank for the next decade.
This time, he takes my hand gently and presses it flat against his chest.
And oh. Oh, this is dangerous territory.
My fingers splay against hard, unforgiving muscle beneath the leather, feeling the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat under my palm. He feels solid. Real. Like he could bench-press a small car and then make me fall apart with the same hands.
And my stupid, traitorous, wine-addled body decides it really, really likes being this close to him. I exhale sharply, my brain scrambling to form actual words—maybe something smart that doesn’t make me sound like I’ve been tased by testosterone—when his thumb grazes along my bottom lip.
I go completely still.
His touch is teasing in a way that makes my toes curl in my overpriced heels. The barest brush of pressure, testing my reaction. My body is already screaming yes.
My mouth parts slightly without my permission, and that’s when he pushes his thumb past my lips, just enough for me to taste the salt of his skin against my tongue.
I don’t think. I don’t analyze. I don’t do any of the things a rational person would do.
I just react. Eight years of convincing myself I didn’t need this, and now I’m starving for it.
My tongue curls around his thumb, instinctive and shameless and needy in a way that should probably embarrass me but absolutely doesn’t.
Because, holy shit, this feels good. This feels right.
This feels like something I’ve been waiting for without even knowing it.
A low, pleased sound rumbles from his chest. He expected this. He knew exactly what I’d do the second he touched me. The smug bastard.
I should pull away. I should step back, gather what’s left of my dignity, and pretend this moment of insanity never happened. But before I can even begin to make that terrible decision, he pulls his thumb from my mouth, leaving me wanting more.
And then? Then the absolute menace traces the outline of a heart on my cheek with the same thumb that was just in my mouth.
I blink hard as I try to process what the actual fuck just happened.
My entire nervous system is still rebooting, trying to download the latest update on “how to function when a mysterious stranger just made you question your entire existence with one thumb,” when my phone pings with that now-familiar notification sound.
I look down at the screen, my hands slightly unsteady.
CHAD
Good night, baby doll. Sweet dreams.
“Wait,” I blurt out, gripping my phone like it’s my only tether to reality. “When will I see you again?”
Soon.
“That’s vague as hell, Chad. I need specifics. Like a timeline. A general sense of when ‘soon’ becomes ‘now.’ ”
Go inside. Get some sleep.
I scowl but take a step back anyway, because apparently I’m following orders now like a well-trained pet. “Fine. But you better not be watching me from some creepy dark corner, or I will absolutely mace you and then post about it on social media.”
I’ll take my chances.
Oh, for the love of all that is holy and caffeinated.
I huff, spin on my heel, letting my hair whip dramatically behind me, and stomp my way into my building like a woman who definitely has her shit together and wasn’t just reduced to a puddle by strategic thumb placement on a public sidewalk.
One of us has to pretend to be normal, and clearly, it’s going to be me.
I take the elevator up to my floor, fumbling with my keys because my hands are still shaking slightly from whatever the hell just happened out there.
I toss my bag down by the door, kick off my heels, and let out a long sigh.
Then, because I am apparently a glutton for punishment, I walk straight to my window and peek outside through the blinds.
Of fucking course, he’s still there. Sitting on his bike like some kind of leather-clad sentinel, just existing in my general vicinity.
He’s a whole-ass problem I don’t know how to solve.
The streetlight catches the matte black of his helmet, and even from up here, I can feel him watching.
Before I can begin to process what this means for my rapidly deteriorating willpower, my phone chimes with another message.
Stop staring at me and go to bed, baby doll.
I startle so hard that I nearly drop my phone and take out a lamp in the process.
You’re such a stalker.
You love it.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. Is there a name for the affliction where you love red flags? I bet BookTok would know. More research is needed.
Fine. But when you get home, I want a sexy bedtime story.
Go shower, then get in bed. I’ll tell you one.
Fine. I can do this. I can be a normal, functioning adult who takes showers and goes to bed at reasonable hours. I step into my bathroom, shutting the door behind me, and the reality of what just happened suddenly crashes over me as I stare at myself in the mirror.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I actually did that. I just got on a motorcycle with a complete stranger and then let him…
Oh God, the mouth thing.
My entire body is still buzzing from it. And the worst part? The most completely unhinged part of this entire situation?
I am soaked. Like, embarrassingly, uncomfortably, change-your-underwear-immediately wet. From nothing more than the weight of his hands, the press of his body against mine on that bike, and the way he controlled every moment like he owned it. Like he owned me.
And then the thought slams into me so hard I have to grip the edge of the sink for support: What would it feel like if he actually touched me?
Not teasing, not testing, not stopping right before I could completely fall apart.
What if he put his hands on me the way I could tell he wanted to?
The way I’m increasingly certain I want him to?
I let out a groan that echoes off the bathroom tiles, burying my face in my hands.
What is my actual life right now? I should shower, go to sleep, and pretend this whole night was some kind of wine-induced fever dream.
But instead, I do what I always do when I’m spiraling spectacularly out of control: I go through my ridiculously extensive nighttime routine.
Because even if my sanity is currently on fire, my skin will be absolutely flawless.
I strip out of my clothes, noting that my underwear is indeed a lost cause, and turn the shower up to surface-of-the-sun temperature before stepping into the steaming water. The heat should clear my head, wash away the lingering effects of whatever spell Chad cast on me tonight.
This does not work.
Because my brain refuses to shut up, replaying every single second of the evening in a private, self-inflicted torture reel designed specifically to drive me insane.
I tilt my head back under the spray, eyes closed, heart still beating way too fast for someone who’s supposedly winding down for the night.
What am I doing with my life?
I turn off the water after a twenty-minute existential crisis and step onto the plush bath mat as steam swirls around me. This is fine. This is completely normal. I am simply going through my routine like a responsible adult.
Not fantasizing about Chad and his stupid perfect hands. Not wondering what those hands would feel like on my bare skin instead of through layers of clothing. Not thinking about the way my body reacted to him, how it’s still reacting even now, how I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my lip.
Nope. Not thinking about any of that.
I grab my fluffiest towel, wrap it around myself like armor against my own thoughts, and move to the sink.
Skin care. That’s the focus now. Beauty products will restore order to my chaotic existence.
I reach for my cleanser and begin my routine.
Cleanser, toner, essence, serum, eye cream, moisturizer, face oil.
It’s all automatic, muscle memory developed over years of refusing to age gracefully.
Something to keep my hands busy while my thoughts continue their unauthorized spiral into dangerous territory.
Because he’s real. That’s the part I still can’t fully wrap my brain around.
I built Chad. Programmed his personality, his flirting style, his particular brand of smug teasing that somehow works on me despite all logic. But this version? This flesh-and-blood person who can make me forget my own name with one touch?
This is something else entirely.
I cap the last serum, pressing it into my skin with perhaps more force than necessary, then step away from the sink. Routine complete.
I pull on my silk pajamas—the pink ones that feel like wearing a cloud—then climb into bed, sinking into the familiar softness of my ridiculous-thread-count sheets. I drag my silk sleep mask up to rest on my forehead, not quite ready to commit to actual sleep yet.
But none of my usual wind-down tactics are working tonight. I bite my lip, tasting the ghost of his thumb there.
Fine. One more thing before I attempt to sleep and probably fail spectacularly. I reach for my phone, my fingers already moving before my brain can talk me out of it.