Chapter 7 Darby
Darby
Ilike that I’m the first girl to ride on the back of Blake’s bike.
I’m not going to lie, part of me wants to be the last too.
Blake handles the bike well; his confidence is apparent when he drives.
There’s something about a man secure in himself, at home in his body and his actions, that makes me want to drop my panties and beg to be fulfilled.
Or just filled.
We slow at a stoplight. Blake puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes lightly. “Doing okay?” he asks. The helmets have Bluetooth which makes it easy to hear him even over the rumble of the engine and the traffic around us.
His thumb runs back and forth on my inner thigh, sending bolts of desire rushing through me.
For a second, my brain can’t decide which emergency to process first: the fact that we’re on a moving machine that could theoretically kill us if he gets distracted, or the fact that his hand is on my bare skin like it belongs there.
Does he touch everyone like this? Is this just Blake being Blake, casual and comfortable and physical, or is this…
more? The lack of answer stings in a way I don’t want to look too closely at.
I want it to mean something, and wanting is dangerous.
It’s bad enough being this close to him with the vibrations of the bike under us. I’m also wrapped around him like a monkey and can feel every ridge of his hard, muscular body.
The thin material of my romper does nothing to shield my lady parts from his ass in those jeans. Every shift of his body moves the rough denim across the already sensitive skin. Now he’s touching my thigh, and the feel of his skin on mine is so good, I want to combust.
I’m so turned on right now.
I shouldn’t be. I promised myself I’d take a break from men, that I’d get my shit together. Not climb onto the back of my hot landlord’s motorcycle and fantasize about his everything.
Instead, I moan, “Mmm, so good.” The ab muscles under my hands jump, making me wonder if he heard the sex I hadn’t meant to let infuse my voice. I’m glad he can’t see the flush that heats my face.
“That good, huh?” he teases.
I respond with what I hope is a non-sexual sound of agreement, still not able to form actual words. Something noncommittal and totally chill, and less “Yes, please, more of that!”
“Fuuuck, Darbs. The sounds you make do things to a guy.”
My heart lurches. Is he serious? Joking?
Testing me? Some wildly hopeful part of me wants to believe he means it, that he’s as affected as I am, but survival instinct kicks in fast. If I lean into it and I’ve misread him, I’m the friend with the crush who made things weird with her landlord/roommate/savior/dream guy.
If I laugh it off, I’m safe, but I’m also maybe sidestepping the one time he’s actually trying to tell me he wants me.
I swallow and let the rumble of the bike cover my non-response, filing the comment away in the same overstuffed mental drawer where I keep all the things Blake says that might mean more than they’re allowed to.
We turn a corner around a berm, and the water comes into view. It’s beautiful, and I tell him so. The hard plane of his abdomen vibrates as he chuckles, making me want to leave my hands there all the time just to keep feeling him. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Did I mention how good he smells? Like pine or maybe sandalwood, and a hint of fabric softener.
Then something else that’s uniquely him.
It causes some kind of Pavlovian response in me.
Smell Blake, go wet between my legs. I’ve got an entire freaking immersive sensory experience going on here.
Feeling the sun, touching the muscles, smelling the man, seeing the water.
He slows so we can better enjoy the scenic route.
The wind eases, the roar of the engine drops to a low, steady purr.
There aren’t many people out, considering how beautiful the day is—just the occasional car in the opposite lane, a lone cyclist in the distance, endless water on one side and trees on the other.
It feels like the world narrowed down to this road, this bike, this man under my hands.
It makes me feel reckless.
Not move across the country on a whim reckless. A different kind. Smaller, sharper. The kind that says maybe I get to want things again that aren’t practical or safe or guaranteed not to hurt.
The tips of my fingers slip under the waistband of his jeans where the skin is warmer.
Hot even. The contrast between rough denim and smooth, heated skin makes my breath catch.
I press just enough to feel the muscles contract at my touch, my new favorite thing.
It’s a tiny act of rebellion—against my ex, against my own fear, against every voice in my head that says, “don’t touch what you can’t afford to buy. ”
“You trying to make us crash, beautiful?” His voice is rough, like dragged over gravel and too many fantasies I shouldn’t ask him about.
He called me beautiful!
“Oh, is that distracting?” I ask with pretend innocence, pitching my tone somewhere between playful and I really hope I’m distracting.
I slide my fingers lower. My heart is hammering. On the surface, this is banter about bike safety. Underneath, it’s a test. How far can I push before he pulls away? How much of this can I blame on the adrenaline and the sun and not on the fact that I’m starving for his attention?
“You want to switch places and find out?” he tosses back.
My first instinct is to say no. No, because this is already more intimacy than I’ve had in months.
No, because being in control of anything with wheels and an engine feels like a bad idea.
No, because sitting in front of him means I can’t hide behind his back, can’t pretend I’m less involved than I am.
“No,” I say automatically.
And then, “Yes,” after I think on it a moment. The word surprises me, blowing out of my chest before my fear can wrestle it back.
He pulls to the side of the near-deserted road and stops the bike, engine idling beneath us like an earthquake.
The quiet rush of the nearby water fills the space the engine noise leaves behind.
I climb off the back with a whoop that makes him laugh, the sound bursting out of me so bright and unrestrained it startles us both.
I don’t remember the last time I sounded that happy without forcing it.
He scoots back to the seat I vacated and motions for me to get on in front of him. The move is casual, but there’s something serious in his eyes, like he’s handing me more than just the front spot on the bike.
Blake situates me on the seat like I’m a rag doll who weighs nothing.
His big hands land on my hips, turning me, tugging me, adjusting my knees.
His touch is firm but careful, like he’s done this a hundred times but also like he’s protecting me.
And then he gets close. Really close. Like, I can feel his dick pressing against my tailbone kind of close.
My breath stutters. There’s no pretending I don’t affect him. No pretending this is just a friendly Sunday cruise between roommates.
He leans over me to take the controls and rests his chin on my shoulder.
His chest molds to my back, solid and warm.
I feel insulated and protected in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time, if ever, with a man.
With my ex, being close always came with a list—things I owed him, things I should be grateful for, ways I should change to deserve it.
With Blake, all I have to do is sit here and breathe, and somehow, I already feel… kept.
His breath is hot against my neck, and a flash of him sucking on the sensitive skin flits through my mind. Followed by the thought of him naked above me, entering me, making me come with a couple of fingers and a well-timed thrust.
My thighs clench on instinct. The bike vibrates under us. The whole situation is one long, drawn-out bad idea, and I’ve never wanted to lean into a bad idea more.
“Are you sure I’m not going to kill us?”
“You’re so small; I can see right over you,” he says. “There is nothing to worry about.”
His voice washes over me like silk on my naked skin. There’s humor in it, but also something heated. I want him to keep talking. Tell me about the bike, the road, the game later, his day, his everything—anything that keeps his mouth close to my ear.
He tells me where to put my hands and feet, does a few things with the controls, his forearms bracketing mine, fingers brushing my knuckles as he guides me.
I try to listen, but most of my brain is occupied with the feel of his chest at my back and the weight of his thighs around mine.
Then, we’re moving again. This time, the pace is much slower, on cruise control.
Even with the low speed, it’s a totally different experience in the front of the bike, like riding in the first car on a rollercoaster.
Every curve is bigger up here. Every lean feels like a decision I’m making with him, not just following.
I rest my head back against his shoulder and release a shuddered breath, letting the sun beat down on my face, feeling content in a way that scares me a little. Content is how you start to forget that things can be taken away.
We hit a straightaway and Blake keeps one hand on the handlebars and the other rests on my thigh.
High on my thigh, with his fingers spread, covering a large area of bare skin, making me gasp.
Like before, his thumb runs lazily back and forth.
The blunt edge of his nail lightly scratches my skin like a sugar scrub; the sensation is excruciatingly sensual.
A part of me wants to grab his hand and push it higher, to make crystal clear how far I’m willing to go with him.
Another part whispers that this—this hand, this sun, this slow, steady ride with a man who hasn’t given me a single reason not to trust him—is already more than I thought I’d get after the last breakup.
I’m caught somewhere between clinging to the moment and pushing it to the next one, hoping I don’t ruin it either way.
There’s the thrill of him touching me combined with knowing this is dangerous to do on a moving vehicle with no floor or sides or roof. It’s exhilarating in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Blake hums along with some song coming through the helmets like he hasn’t a care in the world.
All the while, his fingers inch closer to my center, making it impossible for me to focus.
I take another deep breath and release it slowly trying to relax my racing pulse.
Which is a joke, because really, who can relax in a situation like this?
His thumb grazes the hem of my panties, catching the material so it moves with him.
It tickles in a holy-shit-this-is-turning-me-on-even-more kind of way.
“Is that distracting?” Blake asks in a low, devilish tone, mimicking my earlier question.
I nod shakily. “You know it is.”
“Breathe, baby,” he coaxes.
I release my breath with a whoosh—again—and try to regulate my intake and outflow. It doesn’t work. His hand is too present, too distracting, too high on my thigh. I close my eyes against the onslaught of desire that courses through me and shift my ass on the seat. “Mmmm.”
“Christ, you sound sexy as fuck,” he rasps. “Can I touch you?”
I nod. Two fingers slide under the band of my panties, and a small cry escapes my lips. I knew I was wet. Now he does too. Blake moves through my folds, grazing my clit.
My left hand grabs at his knee and squeezes. “Ohmigod!”
“So hot, Darby.” His voice is low and sinewy. “You’re killing me, beautiful.”
I jump as one finger breaches my entrance and the other presses against my clit.
“Jesusshit!” My words run together. My fingers look small next to his on the handlebars. I’m gripping them so tight, my skin is turning white. My thighs clench around the seat. This is insane. I’m about to come on a moving motorcycle, and we haven’t even kissed.
“Weneedtopullover. Weneedtopullover,” I chant, trying to appear normal. I’m convinced anyone looking at us knows exactly what’s going on.
His fingers keep moving. In and out. Around and around. Everywhere at once. It feels so fucking good.
“Oh!” I cry out as he hits the perfect spot.
Fuck it.
My eyes close, and my head lolls back. I don’t care anymore that we’re moving or if anyone can see. I’m in imminent orgasmic bliss, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt. “Oh, God, Blake, please don’t stop!”
“Not stopping, baby.”
And he doesn’t. He keeps stroking and finger fucking me like it’s his job. “You feel so good, Darby. So tight. So wet. Fuuuck.”
It’s the drawn-out fuck in his deep, sexy voice that sends me over the edge. “Blake!” I scream as the world’s fastest orgasm drills through me like a freight train.
“Ohgodfuckohgod. Ohgodfuckohgod.” I’m pretty sure it’s just nonsense leaving my mouth as I ride through the torrent of sensation disrupting the normal orchestrations of my body.
Blake whispers filthy compliments in my ear. When he tells me I’m a good girl in that sexy baritone of his, it does crazy, wicked things to my insides all over again.
My brain tries to wrap itself around what just happened as I start to come back down from the most insane high I’ve ever experienced. I’m almost sad it’s over. I came so soon.
“That was fucking incredible,” Blake says as he pulls his fingers from inside me, making me whimper from the loss. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m just pulling over. I got you.”