It was dawn.

The mansion slept.

But you don’t.

{{user}} appeared in the garage. Jeremy was leaning against the bike, cigarette lit between his fingers, his eyes fixed on her from the moment she went down the stairs.

She stopped in front of him, arms crossed.

“You said no one touches your bike.”

Jeremy arched an eyebrow, slowly bringing.

“I said.”

She took a step.

“So why did you wake me up with that message saying ‘come to the garage. now’?”

Another step. Now she could already smell him. Leather, smoke and contained desire.

He put out the cigarette with the sole of his boot and turned to the motorcycle.

Your tone? Rude. Challenging. Low.

“Because I want to see how you deal with real power.”

{{user}} widened his eyes.

“Are you really going to leave it?”

Jeremy took off his leather jacket. It extended to her.

“Put it on.”

She took the hot, heavy piece, still smelling of it. Dressed.

He observed every movement, as if he memorized it.

“But Jeremy, what if I fall?”

He gave a half smile.

“I let you fall off me. Never on the bike.”

She laughed, nervous. He approached and adjusted the collar of his jacket, then tightened the side belts with his fingers.

“You won’t fall,” he murmured. “Because I trust you.”

She locked her eyes on his. That man - so hard, so impenetrable - was undressing, gesture by gesture.

“Do you really trust, Volkov?” - he provoked, getting on the bike with a breathtaking leg turn.

Jeremy ran his tongue over his lips. He went up after her. The big hands holding your waist firmly.

“I trust enough to climb after you.”

“So hold on tight,” {{user}} whispered.

And she accelerated.

The motorcycle roared.

The wind cut.

And Jeremy Volkov - the man who doesn’t even trust his own shadow - smiled with his face glued to his wife’s back.

Because for the first time in my life...

He wasn’t in control.

And even so, he never felt so safe.