Page 42 of Ride to Nowhere

Corbin:

Everything. I want you under me, on me, screaming my name without alcohol as an excuse.

Corbin:

Send me a picture. Show me those pierced tits I couldn’t stop touching. Now, Spitfire.

My breath catches. I make an excuse to step out, heart hammering. Once I’m hidden around the corner, I quickly pull my top down just enough. I snap a photo of my boobs, the silver hearts surrounding my nipples catching the sunlight. Pulling my top back up so they’re put away, I hit send before I can overthink it.

Corbin:

Fuck. Look at you. Making my mouth water.

Corbin:

Good girl. My ribs are still raw from your name. Want to add more while I fuck you right this time?

Me:

You’re busy with club shit. I’m stuck here with Diesel.

Corbin:

Diesel’s got nothing on what I’d do to you right now if I had it my way.

Me:

Too bad, so sad.

Diesel comes around the corner and clears his throat, causing me to jump. “Focus, Prospect. These bikes can’t fix themselves.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, pocketing the phone again as my cheeks flame in embarrassment. We spend the next hour finishing the maintenance—adjusting brakes, topping off fluids. My hands work on autopilot while my mind replays every text. Corbin’s chasing me even while handling club business. During a water break for the pledges, he tries again, cornering me near the tool shed.

“Tatum,” he growls low, grabbing my wrist. His body blocks the view from the yard. “Stop avoiding me. We need to finish what we started.”

I pull away, pulse racing. “Not here. Not now. People are watching.”

He steps closer, voice rough. “Tonight. My room.”

“I can’t,” I whisper, but my body leans toward him anyway. The memory of carving his skin while riding him flashes hot. “We need space.”

“Space?” He laughs bitterly. “You marked me for life, and now you need space?” His fingers brush my hip, possessive. A pledge calls his name, forcing him to step back. “This ain’t over.” He stalks off to rejoin training, but the chase continues throughout the afternoon.

Every rotation, he finds excuses to pass by the maintenance area—barking orders that bring him close. By late afternoon, we’re all exhausted. I’m tightening the last bolt on a rebuilt engine when Corbin appears again, sweat glistening on his neck, cut clinging to his muscles.

“Break time,” he tells Diesel before nodding in my direction. “Tatum, help me move some parts inside.”

Diesel nods without suspicion. Corbin’s hand lands on my lower back as we walk toward the storage shed, his touch burning. Inside, among crates and spare parts, he spins me around, pressing me against a workbench.

“Tell me again,” he demands, lips inches from mine. “That you want me.”

“I do,” I breathe. “But⁠—”

His mouth crashes down, kissing me hard and deep. I melt for a second, tasting salt and frustration, before pushing him back. “It’s too risky, Switch.” My voice shakes. The secret with Lennox weighs heavy. If anyone finds out about us, it could tear the club apart.

He rests his forehead against mine, breathing ragged. “You’re driving me insane, Spitfire. Those pictures are gonna get me through the next meeting. But tonight, you’re mine.”

I nod weakly, slipping out of the shed before I lose control completely. The rest of the maintenance drags, my body buzzing with unmet need. Corbin disappears into the clubhouse for club business—but his texts keep coming.