Page 39 of Biker Boo
No gloves tonight, I slide my bare hand beneath her shirt, rough with calluses, dragging my knuckles along her ribs, her belly, until she arches toward me.
“You’ve been watching me,” she whispers.
She grabs my mask like she might try again to take it off, but I catch her wrists and pin them above her head.
“Why?”Her breath hitches.“What are you hiding?”
Everything.
My love.
My rage.
My shame.
I lean in so the mask’s lips graze the shell of her ear.“What are you hiding?”
She shudders.
Slipping out of the mask, I find her neck with my mouth, sucking hard, and claim what I’ll never be allowed to keep.She moans, loud, reckless, raw.
She tastes like sin and sorrow.
I lift her thigh around my waist, pressing her harder against the cracked stone.She’s soaked through the lace of her panties, grinding against the denim of my jeans like she’s trying to crawl inside me.
“Fuck,” I grit.
I straighten the mask, not that it matters.Neither of us can see a thing, so when she kisses the mask, her tongue darting over the sculpted scream, desperate and clumsy, I’m tempted to remove it completely.Feel her tongue on mine.But I don’t.
My hands roam, sliding under her skirt, fingers teasing the place that’s already begging for me.
She whimpers, grinding down.“More…”
Leaning down, I murmur against her throat.“You don’t even know who I am.”
She laughs, drunk on lust.“I knowenough.”
I slip two fingers inside her wet cunt, savoring the feel of her against my skin.
She jerks.
I thrust them slow, then fast, curling them until she chokes out a sob.
“Legend,” she moans.
And I freeze.
But I don’t stop.
She cries out again, coming apart beneath my hand.
I want to scream.Want to tear off the mask and tell her it’sme.That it’s always been me.That I’m the one who watched her through the window when she was crying.The one who carried her from the creek bank.The one who’s written her name more times than I’ve ever said it out loud.
But instead…
I keep the mask on.
I let her lie to herself.
