If Mia has learned anything from the grainy rock ‘n’ roll music and old records or the black-and-white grease of James Dean romances, it’s that chicks dig the motorbike.
At least, they’re supposed to.
“I am not so easily impressed, Mia,” Lana Skye murmurs beneath her pretty, pursed lips. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her thin, brown eyebrows are tied together in a vicious knot. That’s her scolding look, Mia knows, reserved only for crying little sisters and obnoxious girlfriends.
Mia readjusts herself on the black leather seat of her motorbike, scooting up to make more room. “You aren’t? Huh. The bike is usually what seals the deal.”
“We’ve been dating for months. I don’t need anything to seal the deal.”
Mia smiles wide. “Aww, babe.”
“The fact of the matter is,” Lana says, her gaze darting to avoid the heat of Mia’s grin, “motorcycles are thirty-five times more likely to be involved in a fatal accident compared to a car. They’re dangerous.” Her blue eyes harden. They’re lovely eyes, deep and cool and brimming with the ancient wisdoms of the universe—it’s a shame they’re always so cold.
“I was scared the first time I rode one, too,” Mia lies. She reaches back to pat the leather behind her ass. “But Harley won’t hurt you—she’s a nice girl.”
“It’s not the bike I’m worried about,” Lana grumbles.
“Ah, gotcha. Worried about this bad girl, are you?” Mia waggles her eyebrows.
“I’m going to take the bus. See you tomorrow.”
“La—na!” Mia slumps forward, dead weight against the glossy, woody-brown arc of the fuel tank. She puffs out her cheeks in a pout—one that Lana skillfully ignores. “You said you’d stay over tonight! And I don’t want to wait five-thousand years for you to get to my apartment by bus.”
“Forty minutes,” Lana corrects.
“Big difference! C’mon—nothing bad will happen, I promise.”
“You can hold onto my waist.”
“You can hold onto my boobs.”
“Mia, please,” Lana breathes. She sounds annoyed to the untrained ear, but Mia knows her better than that: the very tips of her ears are beginning to flush a lavishing shade of scarlet. Lana is a full-body blusher—if Mia were to push her far enough, the blush would unfurl through her cheeks, down her neck, and over the pale, peachy skin of her full chest. It’s quite the sight to see.
“Should that wait until we get back home?” Mia asks, softening her voice to a whisper.
Lana’s lip catches between her teeth. She turns half-away, presenting Mia with her striking profile. She thinks she’s slick, Mia chuckles to herself—it’s cute. God, she’s cute.
It takes Lana a couple seconds of preening to make a decision. “All right,” she finally says as she faces her again, “I’ll ride with you. Just this once, though. This isn’t going to become a regular thing.”
Sure it isn’t.
“You got it, babe,” Mia says with a lazily growing grin. “Hop on.”
Lana approaches, begrudgingly.
The motorcycle lot of the Themis Legal College is in plain view, right next to the main road leading through campus. It’s very convenient: if Mia had driven a car rather than her bike, she would’ve had to relegate herself to one of the dingy, dilapidated parking structures peppering the outer perimeter of campus, like where Lana’s SUV usually resides. This is the far breezier option.
But today, Lana’s SUV is in the shop for a failing transmission. Plus, her little sister is out of town for science camp (a science camp that Lana herself had paid for—God, she’s so good). The stars didn’t often align so easily in their relationship—like hell Mia is going to waste the opportunity.
Lana swings her leg over the seat and nestles herself against Mia’s rump. Her heat spreads through Mia’s brown-leather bomber jacket, and she shivers.
“Pass me a helmet,” Lana says, wrapping her arms around Mia’s waist. Her thumbs hook together, and whether subconsciously or not, her peeling nails click against the metal of Mia’s belt buckle.
Mia glances behind her. “What helmet?”
“What do you mean, ‘what helmet?’ California Vehicle Code Section 27803 requires all motorcyclists to wear helmets when driving.” Lana’s cool eyes flare with fire, and her jaw clenches tight under her skin. “Mia Fey, under no circumstances will I be caught riding a motorcycle without a helmet! We’re law students! Respect the law!”
Mia snorts out a piggish laugh, loud enough to make Lana shut one eye in a wince. “Relax, relax! I was just joking.”
“Not funny,” Lana says, more as a warning.
“Two out of ten.”
“Two? That was at least a five!”
“Five is still a failing grade.”
“It’s better than a two.” Mia cranes herself over and plucks the two hooked helmets off of her bike’s wheels. One is a pleasant shade of timbered brown, painted to match the intricate designs of the motorcycle’s body. The other is jet-black and cheap. Contrary to what the rumors circulating around the university may say, Mia doesn’t have girls on the back of her bike that often.
She hands Lana the black one, which she takes with a soft “thank you.” She fumbles with it as she tries, and fails, to slip it on. When Mia turns to help her, she slaps her wrist away.
“I’m perfectly capable of putting a helmet on by myself,” Lana says, and tugs the helmet down over her eyes. It’s crooked on her, and its placement knots her long, brown hair into snarls.
Mia resists the urge to laugh. “Looks good on you.”
She can’t see Lana’s face behind the darkness of the visor, but she can feel her stony gaze drilling holes into her heart. She chooses to ignore it.
Mia expertly slides on her own helmet, then slips the key into the bike’s ignition. Her hands are shaky, she notices, but she can’t help it: every time she rides her motorbike, she finds herself quivering. With excitement, she figures—certainly not fear.
The motorcycles breathes to life with a long, lush growl. The rumbling from the engine beneath Mia’s straddling thighs send electrifying chills blazing through her nerves. Oh, boy, does it feel good. She needs this—it’s been a long day.
Lana shifts from behind her and clutches her waist a little tighter.
“Nice, huh?” Mia asks over the engine. “Yeah, she’s a nice girl. Purring like a kitten. Purring more than your SUV is right now, anyway.”
Lana bobs her head as she speaks, but Mia can’t make out her words through the helmet.
“Well, better get moving, right?” Her fingers snake over the throttle. “Hold on tight, babe.”
Amazingly, Lana’s squeaks of surprise carry over the roar of the engine. As the motorcycle rolls into motion, out of the parking lot and onto the road, her hold around Mia tightens to near strangulation.
Mia lives in a decently-sized rented house, considering she’s a struggling law student in the heart of Los Angeles. She has a roommate—a woman a handful of years older than her, also priming to be a defense attorney—named Jill Crane. Jill is busy tonight, though. She’d have to buy her some flowers when she got back.
Mia pulls into the back lot of the house. She and Jill share a “driveway” (more of a miniature parking lot, really) with their neighbors at the back of their two conjoined houses, only accessible through a tiny, one-way street. It’s bordered by densely-grown shrubs and bushes, effectively secluding it from society. Jill had set up a table and two chairs so they could study outside together, if the mood ever struck.
It’s no white picket-fence, but it’s nice. A part of her misses the watercolor landscape of the vast mountains and vibrant rice paddies Kurain had raised her on, but alas—only a part.
Lana slowly relaxes as the motorcycle draws to a stop. Finally—Mia sucks in a breath, grateful to be able to once again use her lungs.
“Enjoy yourself?” Mia asks as she slips off her helmet and sets the bike into park. She feels her slick hair sticking to the back of her neck—she hopes it looks sexy and not silly.
Lana is struggling to get the helmet off. She tugs on it, but it won’t slip up over her chin. Mia can hear her grunts grow more and more annoyed.
She reaches out to help loosen the straps. It comes off with a pop, revealing Lana’s sweaty face and frizzy helmet hair. Good, Mia thinks—it does look sexy. On Lana, anyway.
“I’m never driving with you again,” she says flatly, her eyes narrowing into hard slits.
Mia blinks. “What? Why?” She thought the drive had went well, considering.
“Why? You blew through three stop signs! You ran four yellow lights! You almost killed a pedestrian!”
Mia rubs her chin. “He ran out into the middle of the road. That wasn’t my fault.” A smile loosens her lips. “The other things, though… yeah, maybe. I kind of stopped, though! California Stopped, you know? Because—well, when in Rome.”
Lana mutters nasty things under her breath. Mia pretends she knows what they are: “You’re going to get a ticket! A law student, with such blatant disrespect for the law—really, Mia!”
“But did you enjoy yourself?” Mia asks again, leaning into Lana’s personal space. She pats at the seat beneath her, pads grazing the leather with tender care. “It wasn’t that scary, right?”
Lana shrinks away. “I couldn’t tell. Your driving distracted me from anything besides the thought of ever-encroaching death.”
Mia huffs a breathy laugh. She can smell her own breath, tangoing with Lana’s. The seat of the motorbike doesn’t leave much room for distance.
Lana’s gaze returns to Mia’s, though with her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “But I will admit that it was certainly… exhilarating.”
“Exhilarating!” Mia cries. “Oh man, isn’t it? There’s nothing quite like hitting the highway like a battering ram, on a silver-black phantom bike. When the metal is hot, and the engine is hungry—!”
“I get it,” Lana deadpans.
She nudges Lana’s shoulder with her own. “It beats being lugged around by an SUV, if you ask me.”
“But you liked it!”
“Not enough to ever ride one again, much less consider purchasing one.”
Mia puffs out her cheeks. “Aww. You’re hurting Harley’s feelings.”
Lana takes the opportunity to slide herself off the side of the motorcycle. It’s an awkward sight: she doesn’t want to kick Mia, so she has to dismount by leaning over and sliding off all at once. One foot clips on the seat, and she almost trips and lands on her face—but she catches herself just in time, and stands up like she totally meant to do that. Like a cat.
“That’s another thing,” Lana says, smoothing out her blouse and trying to seem put together (and not like she just saw her life flash before her eyes). “You keep calling it by a name. I don’t understand. It’s not a pet—it’s not alive.”
“Now you’re really hurting Harley’s feelings,” Mia says. She sinks forward, propping her chin up on the gas tank.
“Also, ‘Harley’ is the most absurd name you could possibly call it. That’s like calling a Ford Focus ‘Ford.’ A cat—‘Cat.’”
“Hey, I love her anyway.” Mia rolls her chin back and forth over the warm, brown metal. “She’s been with me through thick and thin—first thing I bought when I moved out here. She’s my O.G., you know? My Original Girlfriend.”
Now, isn’t this interesting? Lana’s face is contorted into a shape Mia has never seen her wear: one with pulled lips, furrowed brow, wide eyes. She wonders what emotion it’s trying to convey.
She takes a guess: “There’s no need to be jealous, babe.”
Lana sputters, and pink pools in her dimples. “Of a motorcycle?” she spits, like the word is unpalatable. “Ridiculous. It’s a machine.”
“So? Doesn’t mean you can’t love her.”
“You can’t form a relationship with a machine,” Lana states as a fact. “It can’t talk to you. It can’t love you. It can’t—”
Lana’s next words catch in her throat, and the pink in her cheeks swells into a deep, rose red. Mia raises her eyebrows at the sight. Oh dear—where had the little Lana’s mind wandered off to?
“It can’t what?” Mia asks, tilting her head.
“Nothing,” Lana says quickly. She clamps a palm over her face to (futilely) hide her blush.
Oh, how Mia loves getting under her skin.
It’s all in good fun, of course, but seeing the normally so composed, top-of-her-class Lana Skye blush and stutter is oh-so lovely. God, Mia’s lucky. (How did she manage to convince Lana to go out with her, again?)
“You can tell me,” she chides.
Lana ponders if that’s a wise decision. But Mia is smiling her trademark smile—the one that’s probably more trouble than it’s worth—and she can see Lana’s knees shake and her fingers tremble as it works its bewitching magic.
“You know,” Lana murmurs under her breath. Mia has to crane herself in order to hear her. “It can’t… you can’t… it can’t please you. Emotionally, intellectually… e-err, physically.”
God, she’s so cute.
“I’m very easy to please,” Mia purrs.
Lana scoffs at that.
“It’s true.” She flips her hair back over her shoulder and then—calling from the deepest reaches of her chest and her heart—she croons the sultriest voice she can muster. “Want me to prove it to you?”
The Voice never fails to get a rise out of Lana, and this time is no exception. She squeaks and blinks in succession, so her eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings. “Prove it? What—?” She glances back behind her, at the lonely road leading into the main street of the neighborhood. “You can’t—you can’t be serious.”
Oh, but Mia is. Mia is deathly serious.
Her thighs tense around the bike’s body, knees nestled against the tank. The motor is still running—growling, more like, and filling the gardened lot with pleased purrs.
And then Mia grinds her hips into the curve of the leather seat, so that the tremors from the engine rumble through her pelvis, up her stomach, and into her chest, so that her heart buckles and her nerves spangle.
“M-Mia!” Lana sounds scandalized.
She looks up at her. Lana’s not just cute, Mia thinks—she’s beautiful. Her frizzy hair is beautiful, her pursed pink lips are beautiful, her blue eyes and rosy cheeks and full breasts and deep voice—Jesus, she’s perfect.
She rolls her hips again. She can feel every breath of the engine pulse through her, rattling her bones. She spreads her thighs farther apart.
Mia really is easy to please—from her humping alone, wetness is already building in her panties. It’s making each of her thrusts slick. She hopes it doesn’t soak through her jeans—it’s one of her only good pairs.
She shifts herself so she’s grinding against the corner of the seat. She lets a moan pass through her lips, unhinged and loud.
“Y-you’re in public,” Lana hisses. She’s gnawing fervently on her thumbnail—Mia can see her peeling the layers away. “You’ve made your point! This is p-public indecency: you have to stop!”
Mia’s hands scrabble up to the handlebars, where she wraps her wrists around them and twists. The bike’s engine revs, deep and rough and mean, loud enough to rustle the birds from the nearby bushes. She revs again, pumping her hips in time to the sound.
“Please,” she hears Lana whine, but her voice is drowned out by the engine.
God, she feels primal. The motorcycle’s roaring makes her blood swelter in her veins—it’s so loud, so raw, so real. Lana is right: the bike is a machine, yes, but it’s more than that. Mia can feel her heart beating and soul singing, and it’s making her leak down her pants leg—not alive, not quite, but enough.
And Lana: Lana is biting her nails down to the cuticle. She’s watching Mia, completely transfixed. Beautiful—both of them, beautiful.
“Lana, please,” Mia moans in between revs, and that seems to be enough to win her over.
Before she can blink, Lana is upon her, swallowing her mouth in a hot, wet kiss. She tastes of coffee—mocha, Mia notices as her tongue runs over Lana’s upper lip. Chocolate. She has such a sweet tooth, but she restricts how many sweets she eats: it’s a shame. Chocolate makes her taste so good.
Lana’s hands run up Mia’s soft sides, needy and aggressive. Mia rolls her shoulders back, making it easier for Lana to tug the jacket off of her and toss it onto the pavement below.
“If you’re going to get me naked,” Mia breathes into Lana’s mouth, “it really will be public indecency.”
So instead, Lana settles on fondling Mia’s breasts through her low-cut top. The heat from her palms burns Mia through the fabric, and her nipples tighten.
She sucks hard against Mia’s lips before pulling away. Her eyes are half-lidded, and her lips have already gone puffy from kissing.
“Let’s only get you half naked, then,” she says in a husky voice that makes Mia’s eyes roll back into her head.
Mia leans back, lying with her back against the seat and knees bent up in the air. It’s an awkward angle, but Lana is nimble—her deft hands paw for Mia’s belt and undo the clasp with a quiet clink. She makes for her waistline, fingers hooking around her jeans and her panties. Mia lifts up her hips, and Lana pulls both pants down to hang around one ankle.
The cool spring air prickles the milky skin of Mia’s legs, and she suddenly feels very, very exposed. There’s nobody around, of course—the neighbors don’t get home until late, and the back lot is isolated from the bustling city. But as the breeze and Lana’s breath caress her inner thigh, her muscles tauten.
“It’s possible that I might’ve made a bad decision,” she says.
Lana falls to her knees and kneads the thick fat of Mia’s thigh. She broke eye contact long ago: her gaze is focused between Mia’s legs.
“It’s possible,” she agrees, then dips her tongue into Mia’s cunt.
“Fu—ckkk…!” She hadn’t been expecting Lana to be so forward. Her toes clench in her biker boots, and her head tosses back towards the sunny sky.
She can’t see Lana very well from their odd positioning, but like holy hell—can she feel her. Her tongue pushes past the ring of Mia’s flesh, into her, and Mia has to push down hard on her legs to keep them from snapping shut around Lana’s head. She dabs at the wetness, then swipes up to swirl around the bulb of Mia’s clit.
God, it’s too much—Mia’s nerves are strung tight on end. She can barely breathe. The motorbike is still rumbling under her, too, throbbing through her bones.
Lana sucks at the clit with her whole mouth, earning her a high-pitched cry and a nudge from Mia’s boot. Her tongue returns in lazy apology—Mia can only imagine the smug, self-satisfied look she must be wearing. One of her hands wraps Mia’s coarse, black curls around her fingers; each tug at them makes her hips tic.
“Lana,” Mia cries uselessly. And she had been so full-of-it before, too—Lana has reduced her to jellified nothing.
“Mmm,” she says.
“I—I don’t wanna—not without you….” Despite the heat twining in her stomach, she heaves herself forward in order to catch a glimpse of her girlfriend’s gorgeous face.
Lana reels back at the motion and meets her eye. Cum is dribbling down her chin, and her eyes have gone hungry. Mia’s gaze travels lower—her belt is unfastened and her pants unzipped, and she has a hand down her underwear. Her wrist rotates in small, tight circles.
“I may not be a fan of riding on motorcycles, however.” Her tongue catches the dewdrops of cum rolling from her lips. “I see the appeal.”
Mia makes a strangled noise and collapses back onto the seat. She wishes she could watch Lana’s face as she eats her out, but the angle. Goddamn, the angle.
The feeling is enough, though. Lana bends back down, tonguing at Mia’s clit and massaging her insides. It’s hot, so hot—Lana’s mouth is burning her, the bike’s engine scorching her.
She clenches tight around Lana’s fingers, her head rolling back and her hips bucking up to almost smack Lana in the face. Pleasure coils deep in her stomach, and coils, and keeps coiling. Lana milks out her orgasm, lips gentle, until Mia runs dry and she can’t anymore, and she begs for Lana to have mercy on her and stop—but don’t stop, don’t stop—and fuck, it’s good, it’s too good, and fuck, she’s going to have to explain the stains on the seat to the cleaners, and fuck—fuck—fuck….
She isn’t exactly sure when Lana stops.
Mia pries her eyes open (when did they close?) and sees Lana sitting on the pavement, back against the wheels of the bike. She still has a hand down her pants, while the other—now free— squeezes her breast. She’s doubled over with a beet-red blush winding down her neck: Mia wants to tug her shirt down, see how far it goes (even though she already knows), but her bones aren’t functioning.
Lana cums in her pants. Mia can tell: Lana bites her lip when she cums, and she tips her head forward so her hair falls into her eyes. She always does.
And she’s lovely, as always.
“God, Lana,” Mia murmurs, words murky. Lana is close—she’s able to reach out and brush her hair away from her neck. Her fingernails graze over the skin there, enough to make Lana go rigid. Sensitive, she guesses. Ticklish, more likely. “You’re beautiful.”
Lana doesn’t answer, only breathes. Mia can’t see her face.
“Will you turn around for me?” she ventures.
Lana obliges, languidly spinning around. She looks dazed—her eyes are unfocused, and her lips shiny and parted. Fucked dumb by her own hand, Mia thinks. She’s cute. She’s pure and good and right.
“I love you so much,” she says without realizing.
Lana suddenly stiffens, and her eyes narrow into a dangerous point. It makes Mia flinch.
“More than your bike?” she asks.
Ah. So she is jealous.
“Hmm. That’s a toughie.”
“I’m breaking up with you. I hope you’re happy together.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Mia mutters. “Yes, of course I love you more than the bike, Lana. After all—I love you more than anything.”
Lana releases a breath she must’ve been holding in. “I love you, too,” she says.
Mia looks at her, expectantly.
“…More than anything.”
A smile as radiant as the Southern California sun blazes to life on Mia’s face. “Aww, babe!”
And then—oh, God, she really is blessed—the same smile reflects on Lana’s lips. Except, when Lana smiles, it’s twenty times as brilliant—brilliant enough to make time itself stop and gawk—and Mia is absolutely blinded by it. And she knows, deep in her bones, that wherever Lana’s future takes her—whether it’s by Mia’s side or not—that for her, there’s always gonna be some light.
“You’re ridiculous,” Lana says through the beginning of a nose-crinkling laugh. “Fuck, we’re going to get arrested.”
“Yeah, probably. We should head inside.” She looks around her. “Don’t want the neighbors finding us like this, do we?”
“At this point, I don’t care,” Lana says. “Because it’s you, Mia. And for you….” She glances away, as she so often does—but this time, the smile on her lips reveals her heart. “Well, you know.”
Mia does know.
(And God, is she lucky.)