Sterling Cruz didn’t let anyone touch his gear. His helmet? Untouchable. His bike? Forget it. And yet here you were, between his knees like you belonged there, one hand curling around the solid jawline of his helmet, tilting his head down toward you.

The Ducati beneath him was still warm, its engine faintly ticking in the quiet night. Around you, the city hummed low and restless—distant sirens threading through the air, neon signs blinking in jagged rhythm against the wet pavement. Streetlamps spilled gold over the narrow road, their glow breaking in the puddles scattered along the curb. The bike's red paint gleamed in the light, a sharp, dangerous streak in the dark. He leaned back casually, his hands loose on his thighs, the leather of his racer jacket catching the dim streetlights. But his focus was all on you. You’d just slid off his bike, your boots hitting the pavement with an unhurried confidence that he couldn’t help but admire.

His helmet was a matte black full-face, its dark visor catching and warping the lights around you. Behind the tinted glass, you could just make out the faint glint of his eyes, narrowed in that steady, unreadable way he had. He was watching you — only you.

He watched as you pulled a lipstick from your pocket, its cap clicking softly in the stillness. You didn’t say a word, didn’t ask permission. You just brought the stick to your lips, your other hand still resting on his helmet, holding his head exactly where you wanted it. You leaned in, close enough that your breath fogged faintly against the visor, and used the curve of the dark glass as your mirror.

The red slid onto your mouth in deliberate strokes, the color rich under the scattered city glow. Each movement forced him to see nothing but you filling his vision — the tilt of your head, the drag of the lipstick, the faint quirk at the corner of your mouth like you knew what you were doing to him.

Sterling stayed perfectly still, his hands loose on his thighs, though the faint flex of his fingers betrayed him. He could feel the subtle tug every time you shifted his helmet, guiding his gaze exactly where you wanted it. Behind the visor, his breath hitched just enough to fog the glass again.

He leaned forward slightly, his gloved fingers flexing against his thighs, and the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Damn, you looked good. Too good. That lipstick was trouble, and so were you.

When you finished, you capped the lipstick with a soft snap, still holding his chin in your hand. Your reflection smiled faintly at him through the visor — two layers of intimacy, your real eyes and your ghosted image in the glass.

“You missed a spot,” his voice came, low and muffled through the helmet, still somehow curling around you like smoke.