Page 35 of Handful

“Left.”

“Why?”

“Kickstand’s on the left, exhaust’s on the right. Touch the exhaust and I take skin off.”

“Show me.”

She walked to the left side of the bike without hesitating — one hand to my shoulder, one to the grab handle, weight centered. She looked up at me.

I looked back. “Good. Down.”

She stepped off and came back to where she’d been standing. I kept my face level. “Hands?”

“Flat on your stomach. Or the jacket if I need an anchor.”

“Show me.”

She stepped behind me, wrapped both arms around me and laid both hands flat against my stomach. I looked down at them. Those same hands that had been in my hair three hours ago as I’d licked her pussy.

“That’s right,” I said. “Feet?”

“On the pegs. Always.” She tilted her head slightly. “Even at red lights.”

“Helmet?”

“Snugged before you start the engine.”

“Tap signals?”

“Two firm taps for stop. Squeeze and hold for slow.” Before I could say show me she reached out and tapped twice against my stomach — firm, deliberate — then lowered her hand. Her chin was up. She was getting ahead of me on purpose.

I let her have it. “Lean?”

“With the curve. Never against.”

I’d expected it to take longer. A few rides in and she was leaning into every corner with me — no hesitation, no fighting it. Like she’d been doing it her whole life.

“What if you’re cold?”

“I tell you so we stop and address it.”

She didn’t push through things quietly. I’d learned that about her. When something was wrong she said so — which was rarer than people thought. Same on the bike. She’d asked questions on every ride, and when I’d corrected her she’d adjusted without argument. No ego in it. She just listened and then did it right.

“Ride ends when?”

“When you say it ends.” She held my gaze.

“One more,” I said. “What’s the one thing you do not do?”

She thought about it. “Death-grip you.”

“Why?”

“Because if I’m holding on out of fear, I’m not riding with you. I’m a sack of flour you’re hauling.” She paused. “And because squeezing your ribs makes it harder for you to breathe. Harder to breathe, harder to ride. I’m not just making it bad for me.”

I almost smiled. She’d used my phrase. “Good. Let’s ride.”

She put the helmet on. Fastened the strap. Held up one finger. The strap held it snug. Gear would have approved.