8
Pia
My heart pounded in my chest, and I fought off major anxiety as Ryker’s bike shot northward on 95, zipping past cars and big trucks alike. I fought the need to squeeze him with my thighs and wrap my arms around him, hanging on for dear life.
What had started with my hands lightly on his sides, our skin separated by his cut and t-shirt, had turned into more a white-knuckled death-grip on that bit of leather, my lifeline to safety. What could be had of it, anyway. At least a helmet protected the top of my head.
I focused on breathing and exhaling to counts of eight, reminding myself of where I sat, how I’d dreamed of doing so, and what my entire body experienced—pure freedom.
The rush of wind, fresh air unhindered by concrete and brick. Eventually, I settled as the miles sped past
