Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DIRTY THOUGHTS
ZACK
Idon’t know if it’s the adrenaline or if Hazel has lost her mind, but there’s something different about her now, and I can’t consciously say I see an issue with it. I tell myself I’m focused on the road, but I catch myself looking at her in my side mirrors, a smile growing on my face.
The curve of the asphalt, the way the bike responds under my hands, the sound of the engine settling into a steady, familiar rhythm—those are things I understand.
They’re measurable. Predictable. They don’t change just because someone important is sitting behind me, close enough I can feel her breathing through the leather of my jacket.
Hazel shifts slightly as we slow near the overlook, her hands tightening for a moment at my waist—not from fear, but balance—and the contact lands harder than it should.
I pull in anyway, easing the bike to a stop where the city drops away into the distance and sky, the engine ticking softly as it cools.
When I cut the ignition, the silence that follows feels too loud—like the world itself is holding its breath.
She swings her leg off easily, steadier than yesterday—steadier than I expected—and that alone sends a wave of something warm and sharp through my chest. She’s smiling when she takes her helmet off, hair a mess from the ride and eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with pretending.
It’s real. It’s earned. And seeing it makes something inside me tighten dangerously.
“That,” she says, breathless but laughing, “was exactly what I needed.”
I nod, because if I open my mouth right now, I don’t trust what will come out.
I dismount slower than she did, acutely aware of how close we are standing, how little space there is between us now the bike is quiet and the wind has died down.
The air feels charged, heavy with things neither of us have said yet.
“You okay?” I ask anyway, because that question still feels like my responsibility.
She meets my gaze without flinching. “Yeah. I really am.”
I believe her. That’s the problem.
She steps closer, close enough I can smell the soap she used this morning—clean and faint—and suddenly I’m too aware of everything.
The way her fingers brush my jacket when she reaches for her helmet.
The way her smile softens when she looks at me.
The way my hands curl uselessly at my sides like they’re waiting for permission I don’t know how to give.
“I didn’t thank you properly,” she says, quietly.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I reply immediately.
Her brow lifts just a little. “I know. I still want to.”
There it is. The shift. The moment where the ground subtly rearranges itself beneath my feet.
She rests her helmet on the seat behind us, then looks back at me, really looks at me, and something in her expression goes serious in a way that makes my pulse jump.
“You didn’t just save me,” she says. “You stayed. You saw me at my worst and didn’t try to fix it, or joke it away, or pretend it didn’t scare you. ”
My throat tightens. “I was scared,” I admit. “Of losing you.”
The words are out before I can stop them, hanging between us like a confession I didn’t plan on making today. Hazel doesn’t laugh, doesn't deflect. She just steps closer again until there’s barely an inch of space left, until I have to consciously remind myself to breathe.
“I know,” she says softly. “That’s why this feels…different.”
The city stretches out behind her, distant and unreal, and for a second it feels like we’re suspended outside of time, balanced on the edge of something we can’t unsee or undo. I lift a hand without thinking, stopping just short of touching her, giving her the chance to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she tilts her head slightly, eyes searching mine, and the unspoken questions sit there between us: Is this okay? Is now okay? Are we?
I nod once, barely perceptible, and that’s all it takes.
She steps into my space fully, one hand resting against my chest like she belongs there, and the contact sends a shock through me so sharp I have to close my eyes for half a second just to steady myself.
My hand finds her waist—careful, grounding, real—and the world narrows to the warmth between us and the sound of her breathing.
We’re not kissing yet.
We’re hovering there on the brink, the bike behind us still warm, the road ahead still waiting, and I realize with startling clarity that whatever line I thought we were dancing around has already been crossed.
We don’t move back toward the house. That feels important somehow, like crossing that line would make this something quieter, something safer, and neither of us wants that right now.
The bike is still warm beneath my hand, the metal radiating heat that seeps straight through my jeans.
Hazel looks at it then at me with a spark in her eyes that makes my pulse kick hard.
“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the seat, like it’s a decision she’s already made.
I don’t argue.
I swing back onto the motorcycle, steady and grounded by habit, and a second later she’s climbing on behind me, closer than she was during the ride, her knees bracketing my hips, her body fitting against my back like it was always meant to be there.
The contact is immediate and electric, a sharp awareness of every place we touch now that there’s no motion to distract from it.
I turn just enough to look at her over my shoulder. “You sure?”
She leans in, close enough that her mouth brushes my ear when she answers, “Very.”
That’s it.
I reach back, guiding her forward so she’s straddling the seat with me instead of behind me, her weight settling into my lap, her hands coming up to brace on my shoulders.
The closeness is overwhelming as her warmth seeps into me, her breath uneven and eyes dark as they search my face for any sign of hesitation.
There isn’t one.
I kiss her, slower than our first time but heavier, my hands sliding to her waist to keep her steady on the bike, my thumbs pressing in like I need to feel her there to believe it. She responds instantly, her mouth opening under mine, her fingers curling into the collar of my jacket and tugging.
The jacket comes off first.
She shrugs it down my arms with surprising urgency, letting it fall to the ground beside us like it never mattered at all. And when her hands slide back to my chest, flat and warm, I feel something in me finally give way. I pull back just long enough to breathe, resting my forehead against hers.
“We should—” I start.
She shakes her head, smiling softly. “We are.”
Her hands move again, this time deliberate, unfastening buttons, pushing fabric aside, and I let her, my breath stuttering as cool air hits skin that was moments ago pressed to hers.
I help her next, fingers careful but certain as I slip her jacket off her shoulders, the movement slow enough to give her time to stop me if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she lifts her arms, letting me ease it away, letting it slide down behind her onto the seat, and the trust in that small gesture hits harder than anything else tonight.
Layer by layer, we undress each other, movements unhurried but charged as hands linger longer than necessary, learning heat, shape, and proximity without crossing the line just yet.
She settles back against me once more, her bare skin against mine, and I feel it everywhere—the weight of her, the tension coiled tight between us, and the knowledge this has shifted into something that won’t fit neatly back into words later.
I tilt my head, my mouth finding the line of her jaw, my voice low and rough when I speak. “If we keep going…”
Her answer is immediate. She rocks forward slightly, closing the last bit of space between us, her lips brushing mine again as she whispers, “Then don’t stop.”
The motorcycle creaks softly beneath us as I pull her closer, hands tightening, the world narrowing to heat, breath, and the edge we’re standing on together.
It’s not lost on me that we are out in the open, exposed to the air and nature at large—not to mention, any passersby that happen our way.
But the thought of being caught, tangled in the mightiness that is Hazel, only makes my cock strain against my jeans.
I’m not some ugly loser, but I know that any man, including myself, is lucky to be caught in the rapture of this woman.
“Remember you’re the one who said that,” I purr against her lips before I press my tongue deep into her mouth.
The only scraps of clothing that remain on us are my jeans and boots, and her bra and panties.
I can’t stop myself from hurriedly unlatching the satiny, black bra that is in my goddamn way, though a bolt of jealousy shoots through me at the thought of anyone happening by and seeing her like this.
All smooth, bronze skin and curves that would make a lesser man weep.
But our little games have gotten me past the point of caring, and honestly, feeling so exposed and vulnerable dumps gasoline onto the fire of my desire.
I step off the bike, so that I can fully devour this woman.
My hands palm her breasts, groaning with satisfaction as I pinch her nipples and grind my bulge against her damp panties.
Hazel’s delicate fingers scrape down the back of my neck as she pulls back from the kiss just enough to speak.
“Are you going to keep me waiting, Cowboy?” she teases, breathless.
“Perhaps.” I smirk, finding her neck again.
I kiss down her throat and between her breasts, heading directly to my destination without any detours.
I lap my tongue against the lacy fabric of her panties, breathing in her feminine scent and watching her as she shivers at the sensation.
Her muscles twitch, her eyelids flutter with anticipation, and her fingers comb into the tousled locks of my raven hair.