Page 28 of Beautiful Savage
His body is squared toward me, not angled away like it could be. Like it usually would be. He's facing me fully, claiming the space.
His cock strains against his jeans, the fabric pulled taut, the outline unmistakable. He could have turned away while I was gone. Could have walked behind the bike. Could have crossed his arms, adjusted himself, done anything to conceal it.
Then I understand completely. He's letting me see. Deliberately. The same arousal I felt against my back for ninety minutes, now displayed. Acknowledged without words. Claimed without apology.
I extend the water bottle. He takes it, and our fingers touch in the transfer. His thumb brushes my knuckle, rough callus against soft skin, and that tiny contact lights up everything low in me.
We're three feet apart in blazing Miami sun, his need visible between us, and all I can think is that I want to close the distance. Want to press myself against him. Want to feel what I've been feeling against my back but face to face, chest to chest, nothing between us. Want to reach down and touch what he's showing me.
Instead, I drink my water in silence while he drinks his. The cold shoots through me, momentary relief from the heat. Both kinds. The sun beats down. Traffic passes on the highway, normal people living normal lives while we stand in this suspended moment.
We mount the bike again. His chest to my back, thighs around mine, hands at my waist. His cock presses against mylower back for the entire ninety-minute return, neither of us pretending it isn't there. If anything, it feels harder now, more insistent. Every bump in the road presses him against me. Every turn shifts the pressure. My pussy stays wet, ready, aching for him.
Late afternoon light slants through La Sirena's loading dock when we return. The space feels different now, not just industrial cold but something warmer. The bike's engine ticks cooling in the sudden quiet. He dismounts first, the absence of his body leaving me cold despite the humid air. He walks to the back stairs without looking back, footsteps echoing in the silence. He doesn't say goodbye, or leave me instructions, he just leaves.
I stand alone beside the Triumph. Chrome catches golden light through the open bay, throwing fractured reflections across the concrete. This bike. Restored over two weeks of nights while I slept overhead. Built in secret while he refused to meet my eyes by day.
A gift from my captor that's also freedom on his terms. Freedom with him literally attached, but freedom nonetheless.
12 - Daphne
With one last look, I leave my new Triumph Bonneville T120 and head back to the apartment.
From below, the building breathes with its Sunday ritual. I track the sounds as afternoon falls to evening. Voices rising from the kitchen, pots clanging, warm laughter carrying up through the floor.
The smell has been climbing the stairs for hours, slipping under the door like an invitation I haven't received. My stomach clenches with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. It's the hunger of hearing family when you're not part of it, of smelling home when you're locked outside.
I know what will happen below as soon as the club closes. The Sunday dinner. Their sacred weekly gathering that I've heard referenced in fragments. Adrian mentioning it when he brought me food, the wistful way he said Gunner hadn't come down to a single one since I arrived — the first Sunday dinners he's missed in nine years. Three Sundays I've been in this building. Three Sundays I haven't been invited to their table.
The realization settles low and heavy. Not quite hurt, not quite surprise. More like the slow recognition of a truth I should have seen earlier. I press my palm against his shirt where it drapes over the desk chair, the bougainvillea handprint faded but still visible.
The club music ends and the voices below shift, congregating toward one end of the building. Ice rattles in glasses. Heavy crystal from the sound. Chairs scraping against wood. Thefamily preparing to sit down together while I remain here, suspended between captor and guest.
My feet decide for me. I'm sliding into my shoes, hand on the door handle, body already in motion. Not with any plan. Just restless need, the urge to be closer to those voices even if I can't join them.
The back stairs echo under my feet, each step taking me deeper into the building's working heart. The smell of cooking is stronger here. Mojo pork, I would guess, the garlic-citrus marinade that would make anyone's mouth water. But underneath it, something else. Flan maybe, that burnt sugar sweetness that means dessert's already waiting.
I reach the bottom landing and pause. The warmth from the kitchen reaches even here, competing with the air-conditioned chill of the hallway. The back corridor stretches ahead, every fluorescent blazing instead of the dimmer evening setting. To my left, the staff cubby area. Coat hooks, several work phones plugged into a charging station.
I walk slowly, drinking in the sounds. Past the laundry room where I've been washing my few clothes, where his shirts sometimes hang beside mine like a strange domestic tableau. Past the back garden door, sealed tight against the Miami heat. Past the security office, dark behind its small window. The voices are clearer now, coming from the far end of the hallway.
The private dining room door stands slightly ajar.
Not wide open, just an inch and a half of gap where someone, probably carrying dishes back to the kitchen, didn't pull it fully closed. Through that slice, I can see fragments of what I'm missing. The edge of a long wooden table, scarred but polished. The back of someone's head, dark hair, broad shoulders in a white shirt that pulls slightly when he moves. The woman beside him, just a partial profile and her hand on his arm, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his sleeve.
The visible slice shows me maybe fifteen percent of the room, but the voices carry through the gap unmuffled.
"Told you the lemon would make the difference, Sera," a woman's voice I don't recognize, soft but pleased.
"You were right." Replies the woman, Sera. "The market on Eighth had beautiful ones this week."
A chair scrapes. Ice clinks against crystal. Someone refilling glasses, the sound of whiskey or wine being poured.
Adrian's voice rises above the others. "Did I tell you about the couple last night? The ones who requested 'My Heart Will Go On' for their anniversary?"
Groans from several voices at once.
"I know, I know," Adrian continues, and I can hear the smile warming his words. "But then, plot twist, they wanted it performed as death metal."
