Growing Pains
This cryin' thing fuckin' sucks, yo. The few times I have cried, didn't last very long. What I'm doin', now? Goes somewhere in the category of Never-Thought-This-Would-Happen. He's holdin' me, he's forgiven me, Wes has forgiven me, and I have no fuckin' clue what to do next
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She says it so flippantly, but I can tell she doesn't like the idea of a motorcycle being destroyed. Doesn't surprise me at all, given her proclivities...and the way she's now trying the bike out. I do wonder how she would have reacted had I shown up at the prison riding it, had I had it at the time. Considering her reaction to the No-Glasses Wesley, it probably would have been quite entertaining.
I bet this baby kicks ass on the streets, man. Why the fuck do you go to work in the Mom Mobile over there, when you could ride in style?"
"I use the SUV for work because I often find I need room for rather bulky equipment when we go on case. It's also makes a slightly better impression on clients and is a bit easier when there's three or four of us going somewhere together. Earlier, for instance, when we went to see Fred's former lab assistant."
Smirking, I circle around to straddle the bike behind her and lean forward to whisper in her ear.
"I rather prefer this for my off-hours transportation anyway. It's much more intimate, don't you think?"
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Right. Forgot about that. However? In my defense? Kinda distracted here; too much shiney chrome infront of me.
I grip the bars tightly in my hand, fuckin' loving how they feel all cool and slick against my fingers. Speakin' of Slick? He just slid in behind me.
Damn, that was a hot move. Mr. Badass leans in, and I bite my lip to keep from groaning as his sexy voice tickles my ear.
"I rather prefer this for my off-hours transportation anyway. It's much more intimate, don't you think?"
That's it; his ass is mine.
Flippin' around faster than he can blink, I spin to face him, straddlin' his lap. "Oh, I definitely think. Now, how about you put that pretty mouth to work." I grab his head and get busy kissin' and wrigglin', running my hands under his shirt.
A girl could get use to this.
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