Page 41 of Filtration Play
Which meant their reason for hitting up Ollie nonstop would dry up.
They licked their lips. That was a problem for future Fin to deal with.
The main building door opened, and Ollie stepped out.
Their heart skipped a beat. The golden late afternoon sun glided over him, highlighting his smooth, tan skin, the sharp angles of his face, and the rich hues of brown in his hair. Today, he wore a white tee that was sinfully hot with the way it hugged his muscles and a grease-stained pair of jeans. Their fingers itched to capture his image on their camera, though the impulse hit far too frequently around him. They’d brought their camera in case they caught the sunset over at Clipper Cove tonight.
Which was not a date. Just a drive.
“Wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do,” Ollie teased as he approached. “Text wasn’t clear enough.”
Fin brought their phone out again.
Sit your ass down on the back of my Ducati like a good slut.
His pocket buzzed, and he pulled out his phone. His eyes crinkled, and a laugh exploded from him. Their heart thumped a little harder at his reaction. Ollie had clicked with their sense of humor from the start, and they knew how few of those people existed. Plenty viewed them as too much, and Fin was happy to drive those fuckers the other way.
Life was too short to waste on the people not meant for them.
Ollie took his time sauntering over to the Ducati, and Fin resisted the urge to reach out for him. What were they going to do? Hug him?Kiss him? The thoughts sent shots of epinephrine and dread in lethal doses, rooting their feet on the spot.
He glanced their way. “You coming?”
“More than you are,” they teased. He flipped them the middle finger, and their heart thumped a little harder.
Fin settled in the seat. “Climb on behind me, babe. We’re going for a drive.”
“This seems to be a familiar pattern for us.” He settled behind them. When his arms looped around their waist and his chest pressed against their back, something locked into place, like a held breath releasing at last. Fin liked the feel of Ollie against them a little too much, and it made their very cells riot.
Their programming resisted comfort so hard that the slightest bit brought an equally vicious response. Except Ollie wasn’t some soft thing. No, he had claws.
And they fucking liked that too.
“Is it a different type of ride you’re after?” they asked, all mock-innocence.
Ollie let out a low grunt that got drowned out by the sound of the engine as it rumbled to life beneath them.
They cackled.
As they took off down the street, the strong breeze ripped excuse after excuse away.
After just a few fucking days apart, Fin had missed Ollie, and they’d wanted to see him.
And now, they’d have the whole night.
***
The drive had wiped their mind clean of worries, doubts, and regrets the way it usually did as they soared down the freeway on the Bay Bridge. Something about the open sky, a clear highway, and a rumbling bit of metal between their legs made everything else wash away.
Ollie’s big body pressed against theirs offered a comfort they didn’t want to acknowledge. One they weren’t keen on pulling away from.
The exit sign flashed into view all too fast.
Fin veered off the freeway and zipped down the road toward Clipper Cove Beach. The winds whirled around them as they approached the parking lot, and their heart thumped hard. Once they came to a stop in a spot, they could no longer run from the fact that they were here at a beach with Oliver Hale and no discernible reason other than they liked his company.
While they’d done that plenty of times with friends, these feelings—the way their stomach churned, how their heart thumped hard—didn’t feel like friendship in the slightest.
They hopped off their Ducati, missing the weight of Ollie’s arms wrapped around their torso, his chest pressing against their back. Rides with him were a dangerous addiction—of every variety.
