The roar of the motorcycle cut through the night, a thunder that made the asphalt vibrate. It was late, and I was in a roadside bar, a dive filled with smoke, with sticky tables and the smell of stale beer. Holding a warm bottle, my eyes fixed on him when he entered.

Six feet tall, trimmed beard, tattoos peeking out from the sleeves of a black t-shirt that clung to his body. Worn boots, confident stride, a gaze that could cut you in two. Everything about him screamed "tough guy". But I, who know how to read between the lines, saw something more: a glint in his eyes, a quick movement when he looked at me for the second time. It wasn't the gaze of a bully. It was something deeper.

I approached the bar, ordering another drink as an excuse. I stood next to him, close enough for him to notice my presence, but without overwhelming him. He smelled of leather, gasoline, and something warm, human, beneath that facade.

"Good night for a ride?" I asked, pointing to his helmet.

He turned slowly, studying me. I thought he'd tell me to get lost, but he smiled, a slight curve that didn't fit with his pose.

"It's always a good night," he said, his deep voice resonating in my chest. "And you? You don't seem like the type to stay in places like this."

"Let's say I'm looking for adventures," I replied, holding his gaze.

We talked for a while: motorcycles, roads, the smell of wet asphalt. Simple words, but each one was a step in a silent game. I noticed how he relaxed, how his body leaned towards me, how his fingers drummed when I laughed. He might seem like the king of the bar, but the signs didn't lie.

"Want to take a ride?" he asked suddenly, when the bar emptied. His eyes sparkled with something more than curiosity.

"Only if you let me ride behind," I said, with a smile that made it clear I wasn't just talking about the motorcycle.

He laughed, a rough but genuine sound, and stood up. We went out to the parking lot. The night was cold, the moon illuminating his motorcycle like it was a sculpture. He got on, and I got on behind, my hands on his waist. He tensed for a second before relaxing.

"Don't hold on so tight, I don't bite," he said, turning around.

"What a pity," I replied, holding tighter.

The engine roared, and we flew down the road. The wind whipped me, but I only felt the warmth of his body, the muscles moving beneath the t-shirt. He took a detour, a dirt path that ended in a clearing between trees. He turned off the engine, and silence enveloped us.

He got off and looked at me. The moon highlighted his face, and I saw a crack in his armor: desire, nerves, something raw and alive.

"You're not what you seem, are you?" I said, approaching him.

"Neither are you," he replied, and grabbed me by the nape of the neck, kissing me.

It was a fierce kiss, as if he'd been holding back his whole life. His hands were ...