Page 27 of Beautiful Savage
I'm a dancer. Balance is the language my body speaks fluently. Within minutes I have it, weight centered, adjusting naturally to the bike's subtle shifts. He walks beside as I practice slow circles, his hand occasionally touching the seat for stability, each touch sending awareness through me.
"Brakes. Front and rear together." His hand covers my right hand briefly, showing the pressure. "Don't lock them."
Every touch carries weight. These hands that have refused me, that broke against me, that know exactly what they do to me. My body notes each contact while my mind pretends not to notice the growing ache between my thighs.
Gear changes next. First to second, back to first, finding the rhythm. His hand touches my left foot once, correcting placement on the shifter. The brief contact of his palm against my ankle sends a jolt through me. "Feel the rhythm. The bike will tell you when."
Forty-five minutes pass in a flash. My thighs ache from gripping the bike, my hands are steady on the controls, my body has learned this machine's language. Sweat gathers at the small of my back despite the early hour.
"You're ready."
He doesn't get a second bike. Instead, he swings his leg over behind me.
Everything changes.
The pillion seat takes his weight. Suddenly his thighs bracket mine, his chest presses against my back, his hands rest at my waist. Light at first, then firmer when I click into first. We're closer than we've been since he carried me up from the alley. Closer than the wall, because this will last hours instead of minutes. Hours of his body surrounding mine, holding me, guiding me.
I release the clutch and we pull onto the street.
His body engulfs me completely. Chest sealed to my back, thighs pressed against mine, hands at my waist, his breath near my left ear through the helmet. He guides with pressure instead of words: fingertips at my right hip for right turns, left hip for left, a tap at the small of my back to slow. We navigate wordlessly through Little Havana's awakening streets, past windows beginning to glow with morning light, into Coral Gables where mansions sleep behind their gates, onto Old Cutler Road heading south toward the green canopy and the coast.
The wind hits my body like freedom after days of walls. The engine vibrates through the seat, through my thighs, through my core. Every lean into curves presses him harder against me. The speed makes me feel alive in a way I haven't since I danced on stage. But it's his body I can't escape. His weight, his heat, the way we move as one machine through each turn. The way he trusts me to control this power while he holds on.
This is the space my mind finally unlocks what I've been avoiding. The wall surfaces in pieces as we fly down the empty road:
The first aid kit on the counter. His shirt coming off, revealing scars and ink and a body built for violence. My thumbon his Saint Michael tattoo, patron of warriors, patron of justice. Thirty seconds of sustained eye contact that felt like drowning. His hands closing around my wrists. Walking me backward those three steps. The cool kitchen wall against my spine, grounding me.
His mouth at my throat, teeth grazing skin. His hand between my legs through denim. The pressure, the rhythm, the way he knew exactly where to touch. My fist in his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The desperate sounds I made.
God, the way I shattered against his palm. Fully clothed, standing up, coming harder than I have in years.
I consider what I should feel: violation, anger, fear, the need to escape, to report, to resist. The proper responses of a kidnapped woman. The responses that would make sense to anyone outside this bike, outside this strange push and pull between us.
Then what I actually feel: hunger. Need. My hand pulled him closer, not away. I finished tending his wounds because I wanted to, not because he commanded it. I came apart willingly. Enthusiastically. Desperately. And I want it again.
The revision crystallizes as we speed down Old Cutler Road, trees blurring into green walls on either side: Gunner believes he's the monster the world named him. The Army discharge, whatever it was for, branded him in his own mind.
But they were wrong.
He's not the monster. He's the man who believes he is one. There's a difference that matters more than I can articulate at fifty miles per hour with his body pressed against mine.
Thirty minutes into the ride, his breathing changes against my neck. Deeper, more controlled, like he's fighting something. His hands tighten at my waist. Then a slight shift of his hips. Not pulling away but pressing closer.
By the time we hit the straight stretch of road, I feel it clearly: he's hard against my lower back where our bodies meet. The erection that wasn't there when we started, surfacing gradually over the miles, now unmistakable through our clothes. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't adjust his position. Doesn't pretend it isn't happening.
The wanting made physical, pressed between us for the remaining sixty minutes of the ride.
Heat pools between my thighs, instant and undeniable. I'm wet, getting wetter with each mile, my body responding to his arousal with its own. The vibration of the engine doesn't help. It thrums through the seat, through my core, amplifying everything I'm feeling. I could slow down, pull over, make him deal with what's happening between us. Instead, I open the throttle wider. Feel him grip my waist harder. Lean us both into the speed.
I'm driving, but we both know he could make me stop. That he doesn't, that's the real power exchange. He's letting me have this control while his body betrays what he wants.
We pull in to a small gas station off US-1. I park away from the pumps, kickstand down, engine ticking as it cools. He dismounts first. Suddenly I'm cold where his chest was, empty where his thighs were, bereft in a way that makes no sense. The temperature change is immediate. Miami sun hits my back where his body shielded me. I feel exposed, abandoned, even though he's only three feet away.
I pull off my helmet, run fingers through hair that's escaped its knot. The strands stick to my neck with sweat. My legs shake slightly when I stand. Hours of vibration, of tension, of his body against mine have left me unsteady.
I cross to the outdoor cooler and grab two water bottles, ice-cold and sweating condensation that makes my fingers slip. The teenage cashier doesn't look up from his phone while I pay. Iwalk back across the blistering asphalt, already feeling the sun burn through my t-shirt.
Then I see it. He's watching my face directly. Not sliding past, not avoiding. Looking right at me with those pale eyes that usually refuse to land.
