Page 90 of Isaia

“Fuck practical. I like that dress on you.” His hands find my waist, turning me toward him. “Besides, the whole idea is to have you hold on to me and enjoy the ride. You can do that in this.”

Before I can argue, he’s shrugging out of his leather jacket and draping it over my shoulders. It’s heavy and warm, carrying his unmistakable scent—spice, leather, and something darker.

He adjusts it carefully, his knuckles brushing my skin as he pulls the collar close around my neck. “There. Now you’re perfect.”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way his hands linger. “I’m still going to flash half the neighborhood,” I say.

“No one’s going to see anything they shouldn’t,” he murmurs. “And if they do, I’ll cut out their eyes.”

“How romantic.”

“Come here,” he says, and I step closer, my pulse quickening as he slides the helmet over my head.

His fingers linger as he fastens the strap under my chin, the rough pads of his thumbs brushing my skin, spreading chills. His eyes meet mine, heavy with something unspoken, as his hands settle on the sides of the helmet.

“Tight enough?”

I nod, and he steps back, swinging a leg over the bike, settling into the seat like he owns everything and everyone in the entire fucking world.

He pats the space behind him. “Come on, troublemaker. Stop overthinking.”

I hesitate, my nerves battling my curiosity, but finally swing my leg over. The dress rides up as I straddle the seat, the cool leather biting against my thighs. My arms slide around his waist, my hands brushing the hard lines of his stomach, and it does something to me— awakens this restless energy under my skin, and I know the only thing that’ll calm it is if I keep touching him. Feeling him. Losing myself in him.

He glances back, eyes hiding behind the visor. “Tighter.”

I adjust my grip, my fingers curling into his shirt.

“Tighter,” he repeats, the word edged with command.

I huff, and he takes my hands, pulling me closer until my chest presses flush against his back.

He revs the engine, and the vibration jolts through me, sharp and electric.

“Hold on, baby girl,” he says over the rumble. “I’m not slowing down.” And with that, the bike surges forward, the wind whipping around us as the world blurs into motion.

I cling to him, my heart racing as he twists the throttle. The bike speeds with a guttural roar, and I tighten my hold around him until my arms hurt.

I’ve never been on a bike before; I’m not one of those people constantly searching for their next thrill. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared out of my goddamn mind right now.

The cold air teases my bare legs, and every turn, every shift of the machine presses me closer to him, my arms locked around his waist, my fingers clutching at his shirt while my heart tries to rip out of my chest.

Streaks of light and shadow blur past us as we ride through the city, the distant hum of the world erased by the growl of the engine and the steady, rhythmic motion of Isaia’s body as he moves with precision. It’s chaos, but it feels controlled—like every jolt, every sharp turn is exactly where he means to take me.

Adrenaline floods my veins, potent and heady, leaving me weightless and burning all at once, and the tension slowly starts to dissipate, replaced by excitement. Freedom, almost. Like nothing can touch us.

I should be afraid, but fear doesn’t come close to what’s pulsing under my skin. It’s something sharper, more consuming. The way I feel when I’m with him like this—it drowns out everything else like there’s no space left for anything else. Just him.

The red glow of a traffic light cuts through the haze, and Isaia slows the bike, the rumbling engine a softer, steadier thrum.

My breath comes fast as I loosen my grip, but before I can steady myself, Isaia’s hand moves back, and he settles his palm on my thigh. Firm. Unapologetic. Telling the world I’m his.

Fingers stroke lightly over my bare skin, and my breath hitches, a spark of heat blooming with the touch. The thumb grazes higher in a slow, unhurried glide, and I bite my bottom lip, the sensation radiating through me, pulling my thighs tighter around him.

“What’s the matter, troublemaker? Afraid I’ll push you too far, or are you afraid you’ll want me to?”

The words hit like a dare, and I lean forward. “Maybe I’m afraid you’ll think I can’t handle it.”

His chuckle is low, rich, carrying the weight of something dangerous, and every nerve in my body pulls taut in response.

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