Page 26 of Beautiful Savage
"Not until you tell me the time."
He sighs heavily before answering.
"Five-thirty."
"Five-thirty on a Sunday morning," I grumble, but I can't help smiling.
It's a small victory, but I'll take it. I pull on my jeans without further questions, my t-shirt, my shoes by the door. The bathroom mirror catches my reflection for a heartbeat while I brush my teeth: hair loose from sleepless hours, eyes too knowing for the girl who used to teach ballet in Pristine.
He's already in the hallway when I emerge. I follow him down the service stairs, past the flickering bulb on the second landing. The bare concrete echoes our footsteps. His shoulders carry tension beneath the black t-shirt, the kind of coiled energythat says whatever he's about to show me has been building while I waited in his bed.
The loading dock hits me with industrial cold from refrigeration and concrete, the underbelly of La Sirena that guests never see. My breath catches. Against the back wall, a canvas tarp covers something motorcycle-shaped. The silhouette alone makes my chest tighten with possibility.
He walks to it with purpose, pulls the tarp off. The canvas whispers away to reveal what's underneath.
A Triumph Bonneville T120.
The sight punches through me. Black paint so perfect it looks wet. Chrome polished until it throws back distorted reflections of us both, me frozen in shock, him standing smug beside me. The seat leather has been restored, rebuilt. Someone's hands have been all over this machine, coaxing it back to life. The tank gleams black with a small Triumph logo. Chrome exhaust pipes catch the overhead fluorescents like jewelry.
"For you."
The words land between us. Factual, no ceremony. But I understand what they mean before I've finished hearing them. This is a gift. From my captor. The man who took me from my home is giving me a motorcycle.
I move closer, reading what care looks like in metal and leather. Every surface polished to mirror-brightness. Every part aligned perfectly. Nothing mis-fitted or forced. This took time. Patience. Love, even, if a man like him can love a machine.
"When did you—"
"Two weeks ago. Estate sale, came in pieces. Been working nights."
The arithmetic lands in my stomach, cold. Two weeks of nights. While I slept in his bed overhead, while he refused to look at my face during the day, he was down here in the dark rebuilding this machine. For me. The contradiction makesmy chest ache. A man restoring beauty with the same hands that refuse to touch me unless his control snaps. Building me freedom while keeping me captive.
"I don't know how to ride."
"I'll teach you."
The simplicity of it. Like everything between us isn't completely fucked. Like he didn't have me against his kitchen wall last night, like we're normal people and this is a normal gift and learning to ride won't involve his body pressed against mine for hours.
We wheel the bike into the empty back lot behind La Sirena. Fifty by eighty feet of cracked asphalt, empty at this hour. Miami humidity already thickens the air despite the early hour, making everything feel close and damp. I straddle the bike, hands gripping the handlebars. The machine feels massive between my thighs, all that potential power waiting to be released.
"Ready?" His voice comes from beside my ear, closer than I expected.
"For which part?" The question is out before I can think better of it, loaded with more meaning than I intended.
His hand tightens on the back of the saddle. That's his only answer.
He stands beside me, one hand steadying the seat, and begins with basics: ignition sequence, finding neutral, the satisfying click when I shift into first gear. His presence radiates heat in the humid morning.
"Clutch. Squeeze slowly." His breath warms my neck. "Too fast and it stalls."
I release too quickly. The engine dies with an angry shudder. Heat floods my cheeks, frustration mixed with awareness of him watching me fail.
"Again." Patient. He reaches past me to restart it, his chest brushing my shoulder. Even through this nothing-touch, mybody remembers. My nipples tighten against my bra, responding to his proximity alone.
Second attempt, another stall. My jaw clenches. On the third try, his hand covers mine on the clutch lever, demonstrating pressure. "Like this. Gradual."
His fingers over mine. Rough, scarred, warm. The same fingers that made me come last night. Memory shoots straight to my core, wetness gathering instantly. I manage the clutch properly this time, trying not to think about how my body is already preparing itself for him.
"Throttle. Small movements." I twist slightly, feel the machine respond beneath me, powerful and eager. "Good. Now balance."
