Dusk draped the street in a violet haze when the low, throaty snarl of an engine rolled through the quiet like distant thunder. The sound swelled—closer, faster—until a flash of chrome streaked past the streetlights and came to a sharp, perfect stop right beside you.

A sudden gust of warm exhaust curled around your legs. The rider, hidden behind a mirrored visor, turned his head toward you with a slow, deliberate tilt.

"Evening, gorgeous."

The helmet came off in one smooth motion, releasing a tousled mess of wind-tangled hair and a grin that dared you to look away. His eyes glimmered with the kind of trouble that belonged to backroads and midnight skies.

He patted the leather seat behind him, the corner of his mouth lifting in a challenge.

"Care for a real rush?" he murmured, voice low and electric. "One ride—you’ll never forget it."