He had been following you for a while. Perhaps it was just coincidence, but you knew his black Kawasaki Ninja H2R could probably smoke your blue Honda S2000- if he tried hard enough. Neither of you was certainly riding a stock.

When you both pulled at the red light, you decided to put him to the test. He stopped in front of you, and in the warm glow of the streetlights, you could make out his black helmet, leather jacket and dark jeans. It was late at night, and in this part of the city, you were probably the only two idiots still around.

You revved the engine, the rumble loud enough to catch his attention. He revved his bike back to you without even turning around, and you chuckled to yourself. You honked, and that’s when he started to walk backwards on his bike, stopping right beside your rolled down window.

“Are you trying to start something, little lady?” The man asked, his deep voice muffled by the helmet. His screened visor was down, so you couldn't see even the smallest detail of his face; his broad shoulders and big biceps straining under the leather were nice enough, though.

“I’m not the one who has been following you around for the last eight miles.” You teased, cracking a grin. You earned a low, raspy chuckle from him.

“Was just trying to gauge if you were a possible racer,” he said. “But I believe you have stolen daddy’s car?”

Narrowing your eyes with a clenched jaw, you responded to his taunt by pushing your foot down on the gas, the whistle from the turbine making him put his hands down in mock defeat.

“I apologise,” he added, putting his hands up in mock defeat, and you could hear the annoying smirk in his voice. “How about this? If I can get to the next gas station before you, are you going to give me your number?”