Page 22 of Cyber Revenge

[7:12 AM]

Morning, trouble. I had a dream about your thighs again. You owe me a ruined pair of boxers.

He sends gifts without asking. Weed, food, lingerie. The last package he sent included a candle that smelled like sex and smoke, and a handwritten card.

I want to melt you. Light you. Keep you burning for me.

I hate how much it works.

Because I crave the silence from Trip like a fucking drug.

But Patrick is loud. Present. Relentless.

And when he messages me that night…

Come out with me. Just us. I want to make you feel something real.

I say yes before I can stop myself.

When he pulls up outside my place on the motorcycle, I nearly come on sight.

Black matte Ducati. Sleek as hell. Purring low like a goddamn sex toy with wheels.

He wears a black jacket, tight jeans, and gloves that creak when he flexes his hands. His helmet is tinted, hiding his face until he pulls it off, and then I see him.

Patrick is beautiful in a way you don’t expect.

Sharp jaw, sculpted cheekbones, stubble trimmed to perfection. His blue eyes are brighter at night, cutting through shadows like headlights.

“You gonna stare all night or get on?” he asks with a smirk, handing me the second helmet. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask.”

I slip it on and climb on behind him, thighs gripping the bike seat, chest pressing flush against his back. He hands me a helmet and I slide it over my head, not caring about helmet hair.

The rumble of the engine between my legs is obscene. I wrap my arms around his waist and swallow a moan.

We speed off. No destination. Just winding roads, cold wind, and the warmth of his body under my palms.

Every time he shifts gears, I feel the tension in his core. Every bump in the road sends vibrations straight through my pussy.

By the time we pull off the road into a shadowy overlook, I’m soaked through my leggings.

My pulse is racing. My hands are sweating. My thighs are trembling from how hard I’d clung to him.

And I want him.

God, I want him.

The trees rustle around us, the city lights blinking below like a thousand forgotten stars. It’s dark. Private. Ours.

I slide off the bike, heart pounding, trying to laugh it off.

“That was insane. My thighs are gonna vibrate for a week.”

Patrick pulls off his helmet, grinning. “Good. I like when you’re shaking.”

He steps into me, one hand gripping my jaw, the other sliding around my waist.

“I’ve been dreaming about you,” he murmurs, lips brushing mine. “You. On this bike. Moaning into my shoulder. Telling me to go faster.”

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