Your Ivy Grows

Chapter 47

The ride back to Bucky's apartment is more exhilarating than our journey here. Maybe it's the fact we're under the cover of darkness as we weave through the traffic, zigzagging between cars as the streetlights guide our way home. It truly is the city that never sleeps. No matter the time, these streets remain a bustling hub of activity.

Bucky takes a noticeably longer route home and I'm sure he's stretching it out for my benefit. Without me needing to tell him, he knows I'm already addicted to the thrill I get from being on the back of this bike with him. And I take full advantage of getting to spend time pressed against him as we hurtle along.

When there's finally a quiet stretch of road ahead of us, I loosen my hold from around him. He slows but doesn't stop and I can't help but fully let go so I can stretch my arms out and feel the wind through my fingers.

Adrenaline pumps through my body as it tries to make sense of the way it feels like I'm flying. It should terrify me but it doesn't; it's thrilling. I feel weightless, like the only thing keeping me tethered to this bike is the feel of Bucky's body pressing against mine.

Near the end of the street, he slows to a crawl, reaching back for my hand and forcing it back around him. I take it as his silent way of telling me not to let go again, and I give his fingers a reassuring squeeze to let him know I've understood.

Rather than entwine my fingers around his middle, I slide my hands under his shirt. A shiver runs through him as my icy hands touch the warmth of his stomach, my fingers running over the muscles and delighting in how they clench in answer to the touch.

The kiss we'd shared before leaving the greenhouse had felt like a promise of things to come. And if that hadn't been, then the way Bucky keeps touching me as we ride home definitely is. He's moved on from the subtle possessive hold on my leg he preferred on the way here. Now his large hands stamp their claim all over, trailing heated paths up the inside of my thigh anytime we stop to the point it's wholly indecent.

At one point, he has enough time to slide his hand all the way until it's at the apex of my thighs. I'm not even sure if I wriggle down on his hand first or if he presses his fingers up into me. All I know is that my body practically sings at the friction he creates. I'm grateful that my helmet muffles the sound of pleasure he elicits from me.

My head feels heavy, weighted down with desire and dizzying need the closer we get to his apartment building. All the blood in my body seems to have abandoned my brain and instead pumped its way between my legs to that little bundle of nerves he can't help but play with any chance he gets.

It doesn't help that the bike is vibrating beneath me the entire way home. Who knew a motorcycle could also work as a torture device of pleasure? I certainly didn't until today.

When we stop at the last set of lights between us and our access to a bed, I feel Bucky's body shake and I know he's laughing at how I'm wriggling behind him to adjust myself on the seat. The fucker can laugh all he wants; at this point I'm genuinely worried I'll leave a wet spot behind when I climb off this thing.

Two can play the teasing game.

His laugh dies in his throat when I reach down and palm his cock through his jeans. There's absolutely no hiding how affected he is by this push and pull between us. It's like a steel pipe trying to escape the confines of his jeans.

It's my turn to laugh because he's already pulling away as the light changes, tearing towards his apartment building with such speed his bike roars in protest. It's not surprising that in no time at all we're pulling into the same space we vacated hours earlier, both breathing far too heavy for two people who travelled here on the back of a bike.