Page 20 of Dash

It’s been a long time since I had a woman riding behind me—too long—but fuck me, it feels good.

Fucking focus, Dash.

I clear my throat as I pat her thigh. “You good?”

She makes a sound that sounds like a ‘yes’, so I start the engine. My Harley rumbles to life, vibrating beneath us, and she lets out a squeal that has me grinning.

Then we’re moving, and her arms become bands around my waist.

And I want to keep her there forever.

SIX

DAYNA

It feelslike we’re flying. Dash is careful as he weaves between traffic, but I want to scream at him to go faster, to push us to the edge of safety. I’m free, alive in a way I haven’t felt for so long—maybe never.

The wind whips at my bare legs, and I’m careful to avoid touching the pipes, like he told me, but every inch of me is vibrating with excitement.

Whenever he slows, his hand wraps around my thigh, squeezing, as if to remind me he’s here, that he’s got me. I’ve never had that from anyone, and I don’t know what it means from him, but I just lean into the moment.

My heart sinks when my building comes into view. I could have sat behind him like this for hours, just letting my mind escape. There is no expectation, no weight of judgement, no voices in my head telling me I’m not enough. My mother’s words that usually repeat on a loop all day long are, for once, silent.

But it all comes flooding back when he pulls up at the kerbside, and real life crashes into the illusion.

I don’t want this moment to end, but he pats my leg, a signal to get off.

Once I’m back on solid ground, I fumble for the strap at my throat, but I can’t find the catch. Dash climbs off the bike and steps into my space, swallowing all the air intended for my lungs. His eyes lock on mine as he undoes the helmet, and every caress of his fingers over my skin sends shivers skittering up my spine.

He’s so fucking handsome this close up.

He pulls it off my head, gentle in a way that shouldn’t be possible for someone as big as him. I don’t know what to do with someone who looks at me like I’m not just a convenient placeholder, like I’m a good time but not a long time.

Which is why this won’t last.

It can’t, no matter how much I want it to.

I wrap my arms around my waist, a shield against whatever bullets are going to hit when he fires them, and then I wait. For the disappointment, for the censure, for the end.

I brace for the lecture about being reckless, about pulling him into my drama.

It doesn’t come.

He fastens the helmet to the back of his bike and turns back to me as if he’s unbothered by my shit.

I’m completely at a loss because this isn’t the usual script. This isn’t how things go for me.

And I’m too busy being mesmerised by him to figure out what the fuck it means.

He reaches for me, and my heart squeezes. I lift my gaze as he flattens down a piece of my hair.

And then I ruin it. Of course, I do. I ruin everything.

I can’t help it, though. My body is conditioned to see danger even if there is none. So, when he reaches for me, I flinch.

His expression morphs into something dark, something dangerous, as if he’s looking for my monsters to hunt down. Then it softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to fear me, Dayna.”

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