Page 17 of Egg Me On
“He won’t change them. Says it dishonors her memory,” Mira grumped. “Even her ghost knows they’re like 70 years out of style.”
Cash’s lips twitched like he was holding back a laugh, then he turned and met her eyes. "I’ll keep him safe," he said with a certainty that made my knees weak.
“Make sure he takes a break to have some fun, too. He’s convinced he’s not allowed that,” she added before turning back inside and slamming the door.
Then, with a fluidity that spoke of years of practice, he swung his leg over the bike and settled into the seat, the machine dipping slightly under his weight.
While he adjusted his helmet and pulled on his gloves, I secured my bag in the luggage case the helmet had been in, then stood beside the motorcycle, suddenly nervous. This wasn't like the quick rides to and from work. This was hours on the road, my body pressed against his the entire time. My mouth went dry at the thought.
This was going to be a long ride. A very long, very enjoyable ride.
With a deep breath, I swung my leg over the bike, settling into the passenger seat behind him. The backrest pressed reassuringly against my spine, and Cash's broad back loomed before me, solid and warm. I tentatively placed my hands on his shoulders, suddenly unsure where they should go.
He sighed loud enough that I could hear it in my helmet, and reached back to grab me, hauling me close and pulling my arms around his waist, settling my hands against his stomach.
“I know, I’ve been riding with you for long enough that I should have known that,” I said, laughing. “But this is different.”
My chest was now pressed fully against his back, my thighs bracketing his. Even through the layers of technical gear, I could feel the heat of him, the solid strength of his body. I swallowed hard, grateful for the helmet that hid my flushed face.
“Fuck, I’d better not have a hard-on for this entire ride,” I muttered, sure he couldn’t hear me through our helmets.
Cash kicked the bike to life, the engine rumbling beneath us like a slumbering beast. The vibration traveled up through my core, settling in places that made me bite my lip. He glanced back at me once more, like he always did when he wanted to know if I was ready.
“Ready!” I yelled, tightening my arms around his waist, and we pulled away from the curb with a smooth acceleration that forced me to tighten my arms around him.
The city streets gave way to wider roads as we headed toward the outskirts of Denver. The roar of the engine and the rush of wind made conversation impossible, forcing me into a bubble of sensation—the vibration of the bike, the occasional lean into curves that made me cling tighter, Cash's body solid and steady beneath my hands.
I shivered involuntarily—not from cold, but from the sheer sensory overload of being so close to him, smelling the leather and faint cologne that clung to his jacket.
"Cold?" he asked, voice carrying through the helmet better than I expected.
"No, I'm—" I started, but he'd already grabbed my hands.
On a straight stretch, he grabbed my hand in one of his and tugged it lower, sliding it beneath the hem of his jacket. I slid my other hand under it, feeling him shiver.
“Is that because you like me touching your abs or because my hands are cold?” I asked, though I was pretty sure he couldn’t hear me. When he didn’t answer, I giggled and took the opportunity to tease him about whether or not he’d want these cold hands on his dick. It was kind of fun, taunting him when he was right there next to me but couldn’t hear what I was saying. Between the helmets, the wind, and the engine noise, there was no way my voice carried to him.
And it was super fun, touching him. My palms flattened, sneaking under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, feeling the ridged muscles of his abdomen beneath. Heat bloomed where we connected, his skin burning through the fabric. I gasped, the sound lost in my helmet.
The highway stretched before us like an invitation, concrete yielding to the mountains that rose in the distance, hazy blue against the morning sky. With every mile, Denver's sprawl fell away, replaced by open spaces and the promise of wilderness. I was acutely conscious of my hands against Cash's stomach, directly on his warm skin, the defined ridges of muscle flexing beneath my fingertips. Even through two layers of leather and the constant vibration of the engine, I felt every subtle shift of his body, every breath, every minute adjustment as he handled the powerful machine between our legs.
Cash rode with an effortless confidence that made something primal curl deep in my belly. His body telegraphed every movebefore he made it—the slight lean before a curve, the minute tension before acceleration. After the first few miles, I found myself following his movements instinctively, my body melding to his like we'd been riding together for years instead of weeks.
He’d told me I was good at that, and I tried my best to pay attention to every flex of his muscles, every shift of his body.
“Kinda easier to figure out what you’re about to do with my hands on your abs,” I commented to no one but myself. “Maybe when you won’t talk to me, I can just grope you and try to guess what you’re thinking.”
I let my thumbs move slightly, tracing the contours of muscle beneath his shirt. I felt him tense momentarily, then relax into the touch. Emboldened, I spread my fingers wider, exploring the landscape of his torso with cautious pressure. His skin was furnace-hot against my palms, and I swore I could feel his heartbeat quickening beneath my touch.
“I keep telling myself there’s nothing there, that you’re straight, but why do you keep showing up? Why did you want me to ride with you and not Dylan?” I asked into the void. “I wish you would just talk to me. I swear I won’t judge you by what you’re thinking, or by what you have to say.”
He said nothing, of course, because he couldn’t hear me, but my hands remained tucked under his jacket, fingers splayed across his abs. When we hit a straight stretch of highway, Cash surprised me by briefly covering my hands with one of his, pressing them more firmly against his stomach before returningto the handlebars. The gesture was possessive, intimate in a way that made my breath catch.
It felt like a response to what I’d said, but I told myself maybe it was some sort of secret motorcycle rider signal. Like telling me he had to pee. Because it wasn’t like he could hear me.
After nearly an hour of riding, Cash signaled and pulled off the highway into a gas station that seemed to have materialized from nowhere. The lot was already occupied by several motorcycles I recognized from FRMC—Silas's custom cruiser, Liv's sleek sport bike, Dylan's vintage bike with its distinctive sidecar, stuffed with supplies. Marcus was there too, leaning against his bike while animatedly talking to a group of riders I'd seen around the shop but didn't know by name.
Cash pulled up to a pump and cut the engine. The sudden silence felt strange after the constant roar, leaving my ears ringing slightly. He stood, supporting the bike as I carefully dismounted on wobbling legs, then took off his gloves and helmet, stretching his legs.
