Page 5 of My Ex-Military Biker

She doesn't ask for help through any of it.

Third time she makes it and settles behind me with the dress bunched and caught and probably ruined beyond repair.

Then her arms wrap around my waist to hold on and every muscle in my body goes tight.

Her hands land just below my ribs. The pressure hits the edge of the wound and pain spikes sharp and immediate.

I lock it down. Breathe through it. But under the pain is something else entirely.

The soft weight of her tits pressed against my back through too many layers of fabric. The curve of her stomach against my lower spine. Her thighs bracketing my hips, thick and solid and warm even through denim and wedding dress.

I can feel every point where her body makes contact with mine.

My cock starts twitching.

Wrong time. Wrong situation. I'm bleeding through gauze and she's a stranger who needs a ride to somewhere that isn't the shoulder of a highway.

But my body doesn't give a fuck about wrong time or wrong situation. Just knows there's a woman pressed against me and wants to know what she feels like without all the fabric between us.

I adjust my grip on the handlebars and force my mind to the wound. The steady burn across my ribs. The blood seeping warm against my skin. Anything except the woman wrapped around me and how much I want to pull over in half a mile and find out if she's soft everywhere.

She shifts her weight, settling in. Her grip tightens a fraction. Those soft tits press harder against my back.

Fuck.

I start the bike. The engine is loud enough that conversation becomes impossible, which is good because I don't trust my voice right now.

The ride to my house is four minutes. I experience every second of it.

The vibration of the engine travels up through the bike into my body and hers. The wound pulls with every breath, every small adjustment to balance. Her body moves with mine when I lean into the turns. Her thighs grip tighter when I accelerate coming out of a curve.

By the time I pull into my driveway I'm half-hard and bleeding and my control is thinner than the gauze holding the wound closed.

I kill the engine.

The silence that follows is sudden and total.

She gets off first. Has to work the dress free from where it caught on the exhaust pipe. She manages it without tearing anything, which seems like a minor miracle given the situation.

I get off slower. The wound protests the movement.

The erection makes everything more complicated than it should be.

My house sits back from the road. Nothing special about it from the outside. Nothing special about it from the inside either.

It's just where I live.

I walk to the door and unlock it. The key sticks like it always does. I push the door open and step inside.

The door closes and I turn around.

She's standing in my living room in a wedding dress.

The image is surreal enough that I have to process it twice. This is my house. My space. I've lived here for six years and the most dramatic thing that's happened in this living room is a prospect bleeding on my couch after a bar fight.

Now there's a woman in white, looking around like she's cataloging what my space says about me.

There's not much to catalog. Couch. Coffee table. TV I barely turn on. Kitchen visible through the doorway.