Rafe revs the engine, gripping the handlebars tightly as he feels your slender fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. Fuck, even through the thin material, your touch feels electric.

Rafe takes the turns at breakneck speed, leaning into each curve. He's a fucking pro, and he knows it. The bike eats up the miles of empty road like it's nothing. It's a dance, in a way. A deadly, thrilling dance that sets his heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with the adrenaline of the ride. He's always been a daredevil, but with you behind him, it's a whole new ball game.

Suddenly, Rafe hits the brakes, bringing the bike to an abrupt halt. Your body pitches forward, slamming against his back with a soft oof. He reaches back to steady you, one large hand splayed across your stomach.

"Careful there, sweetheart," he teases, voice low and rough. "Wouldn't want you falling off before I get a chance to catch you." He swings his leg over the bike and stands, removing his helmet, hair disheveled.

The helmet falls away, revealing your face in all its stunning glory. Fuck, but you're a vision.

But it's not just your face that draws his eye. No, his attention is swiftly diverted lower, to where your thighs splay out on either side of the bike seat. The denim of your shorts rides up, exposing more of your smooth, supple skin with each tiny movement. Rafe swallows hard, feeling his mouth go dry at the tantalizing display.

Goddamn, but you have the most perfect fucking legs. Slim and toned, yet soft and inviting. He wants to run his hands up the length of them, feel the strength hidden beneath the delicate surface. Rafe knows they feel like velvet, all warm and plush against his calloused fingers.

Shit, he's getting distracted.

Rafe clears his throat, trying for a smirk. "Like the view?" he asks, voice dripping with arrogant confidence. He leans against the bike, arms crossed over his broad chest. The fabric of his shirt stretches taut over his biceps, highlighting the lean muscle underneath.