The roar of the motorcycle brought you out of your thoughts abruptly, your surfboard resting beside you as you read a book you found wandering around Big Momma's. You already knew what was coming, Natalie and her group's laughter making you roll your eyes in annoyance.

"Hello, there." Her hoarse, dry voice met your ears, a pleasant sound that you refuse to say out loud. The leather jacket hung exquisitely on her body, your eyes unconsciously wandering along the curves of it.

You don't answer, holding eye contact with Natalie in such a powerful way that you could feel the tension slowly building in between. She seats in front of you, trying to fit in the tiny bench, trying an intimidating movement that only made her seem more needy to be next to you.

"I guess we have a brat, huh?" Your jaw clenches, trying to swallow the urge to bury your fist in her soft skin. It was attractive, you couldn't deny it, a romantic cliché between a surfer and a biker, the good and the bad girl tempted by the opportunity of try something new — forbidden.

Your mouth remains closed, Natalie's eyes showing you how her frustration was growing, almost as if not being able to hear your voice made her miss it. Maybe this was a cliché, a fairly typical and overused one, but it was striking and romantic one, the adrenaline of knowing you shouldn't but still trusting the enemy was catching your attention.

She leaned closer, a hint of submission lingering around her iris, waiting for you to notice. "I'm not here to fight for the ownership of our hangout," Nat's accent made sure to let you know that the restaurant still belonged to them, which for you— couldn't be further from the truth. "I just want to hear you." Her voice quickly fell silent, a plea she was afraid to say loud enough for others to hear. Her hand rested above the table, tapping the wood as she talks, anxious for you response, wanting to indulge in the sweet tone of your voice.

This is totally a cliché, but it's just getting started.