I stare at him for a moment. Oh god, I really talked myself into that corner, didn’t I?
With a groan that is part panic, part pure excitement, I swing my leg over behind him, hitching up my skirt so I can straddle his body with mine. My crotch is pushed up against his hips and the vibrations of the motorcycle; I might just orgasm from this ride alone.
Ducking my head and snuggling my face against his back, I close my eyes as we take off into the evening air.
Maybe Diesel is an outlaw after all. Or, at the very least, owns a cool bike.
73
Lisa
“You really have to be kidding me. Is this your outlaw pad?” I ask him, rolling my eyes. He’s standing by the doorway, his lips cocked into a smile as he bows.
“My humble apartment,” he says with flair, allowing me to enter his apartment before he does. Like a true outlaw. Yeah, right.
His pad is everything but humble; let’s just start by saying that no self-respecting outlaw would own an apartment in the Upper East Side. And when he flicks the light switch by the door, turning on the lights, I can’t help but gasp: he’s definitely pulling some kind of prank on me.
The living room is like something out of a magazine, the furniture perfectly laid out as if he spent weeks getting the right angle just for the couch. The walls are a clear white, contrasting with the dark high-end furniture, and the room is so large it almost becomes uncomfortable. I look around, trying to find something personal—a family picture, or maybe one of him and some ex-girlfriend—but all my eyes find on the walls are paintings. The canvases are huge, and the artwork seems so abstract I don’t even know what I’m looking at.
“I didn’t know outlaws hired interior designers,” I tease him, turning around to face him.
“Maybe it was a criminal interior designer,” he shoots back, placing his keys and wallet on the mantelpiece. Even the fireplace seems like it was made to order.
“Yeah, of course it was --” I start to say, but he just closes the distance between us and places his hands on my waist. His mouth is so close to mine that my eyes are drawn to his lips.
“I remember something you said… What was it?” He runs his tongue between his lips, trying to look as if he’s lost in thought, and then continues. “Oh, yeah. Something about a motorcycle and fucking.”
Blood runs through my cheeks, and I know I must look like a cherry tomato right now. But my face isn’t the only place where boiling blood is running to; my insides are warming up, and my pussy becomes even wetter than it was on the ride here. It’s going to happen, isn’t it? We’re really going to fuck.
Sure, he might not be a real bad boy, an outlaw, but there’s something about him… There’s an edge to his eyes, and his grin sometimes looks dangerous as well. And, well, he does have a bike. No, I’m not futile enough to fuck a guy just because he has a bike, but I gotta tell you… Riding his bike, my crotch against his hips as he swerved in and out of traffic, it was something surreal. My arms were lacing his torso the whole time, feeling his strong frame, and I couldn’t help but imagine how he looks under his shirt. I guess it’s time to find out.
“Well, I don’t break promises,” I purr, my eyes still locked on his lips. He’s smiling now and, God, I’ve never seen lips as delicious as his. His mouth was designed for kissing and perhaps for something more. Just thinking of that is enough to send a shiver up my spine, and I bite on my lower lip as I imagine all the things he might do with his mouth…
“No need to play it cool, Lisa,” he says, his words just a whisper. “I know you’re dying for it.”
“I’m… I’m not…” Shit, I can barely think straight right now. Work, brain, work!
“Well, I guess I should just take you home, then,” he teases me, and that’s when my brain decides to start working. Except, instead of leading me down a straight and narrow path, it makes me jump down a sinful cliff. Without bothering to answer him, I just close the distance between our mouths and press my lips against his.
My eyelids go down by instinct, the taste of his lips making me dizzy. His hands go down from my waist to my ass and, squeezing my cheeks with his long fingers, he pulls me into him. I tremble with anticipation as I feel something hard and impossibly huge pushing against my dress, and I just press my body against his.
He pushes his tongue inside my mouth, parting my lips, and our kiss grows into something violent and fierce. He might not be an outlaw, but he sure as hell knows how to kiss a girl.
Using his body, he pushes me until my back is against the wall, and then takes one hand to my neck and tangles his fingers in my hair. Yanking, he forces me to throw my head back and looks into my eyes. There are flames dancing in his irises, and I feel a sudden urge to be consumed by that violent fire.
I take my hand to his crotch, my outstretched fingers ready to grab his cock, but he’s faster than me: he grabs me by the wrist, stopping me just before I press the palm of my hands against his erection.
“Say it,” he whispers, mischievousness painting his face. At first, I’m confused; what does he want me to say? But the answer comes to me fast.
“I… I want it,” I exhale sharply, straining against the hold he has on me.
“What do you want?” he continues, tightening his fingers on my wrist.
“Your cock, I want your cock,” I say, and he lets go of me immediately. My hand flies onto his crotch as fast as I can, and my brain almost explodes as I feel his hard-on against my fingers. It doesn’t feel like there’s a cock inside his pants, but a baseball bat made of steel. Handsome, cocky, and with a huge cock—where have you been all these lonely nights, Diesel?
“You seem surprised,” he says, that devilish grin of his widening.
“You’re… huge.”