Blue Dragon

I didn’t argue. It was karma. Fate, I decided. I swung my leg over the saddle, behind him, encircled his waist with my arms, and held on for dear life as he took me for a ride all through town and out into the countryside in several directions, not arriving at the abandoned farm until after 6:30. He seemed to know where he was going—and I knew the general area we were in, to the east of town. We’d crossed I-70—and took a sharp turn into the farm’s drive at a good clip, sending up gravel, and scaring the shit out of me—not for the first time during the ride.

Not for the last time that night.

I was exhausted when we arrived, in a grove of trees at the back of the dark and obviously abandoned Cape Cod-style farmhouse. And I think that exhausted—and cowed—was how he wanted me. We stood off at the side of the Harley, our bodies rocking against each other, as Angel pulled his jacket and mesh shirt off his body and then my T over my head. We kissed deeply as he worked both belt buckles and sent my jeans and briefs and his leather pants to the ground.

He was sucking on my tongue and rubbing our dicks together—his quite a bit longer than mine—when he broke away and whispered, “Tell me you’re over eighteen again.”