Wild bikers

He’s all black leather and easy grin when she swings onto the back of his bike. The ride’s short, but by the time they roll into the garage her thighs are warm from hugging his hips. He cuts the engine. She slips off, eyes the open workshop, then drops to her knees right there on the concrete. Her mouth finds him quick—wet, warm, determined—while the tools and spare parts watch in silence. When she’s got him slick and aching, she peels out of her jeans, braces against the workbench and arches her back. He takes the invitation, sliding in with one steady thrust. She pushes to meet him, greedy for every inch. He keeps a slow, heavy rhythm until he can’t hold back anymore, then buries himself deep and lets go. The hot spill fills her, a slick pulse she welcomes with a soft, satisfied sigh.