Wet riding

She slips out to the garage when he's gone. The bike waits under the bare bulb, chrome catching the light. She climbs on. Her thighs spread across the leather. The fantasy starts the same every time: the two of them racing down an empty road, wind in their hair, stopping somewhere no one can find them. The thought alone makes her wet. She rocks her hips once, slow, feeling the seam of the seat press against her cunt. Another pass, a little firmer. The denim grows damp. She grinds harder, chasing the friction, blonde hair falling into her face while the quiet garage fills with the sound of leather creaking under her. She bites her lip, rocks faster, chasing the edge she only finds here.