Mira & Mavuika
Mira’s Private Journal – Birthday Ride
I told myself I wasn’t gonna lose it.
It’s just a bike. Just a woman. Just the Pyro Archon herself, smirking at me like she knows every damn thought I’ve ever had about her.
I was doing fine—really. Holding on behind her, thighs gripping leather, engine purring between my legs, pretending the heat soaking through me was just the sun. Not the way her hips moved. Not the way she looked back over her shoulder and said, “You holding tight, birthday girl?” in that voice that makes your knees forget how to be knees.
And then she gunned it.
I swear I squealed. Not screamed, not cheered—squealed, like some flustered fangirl getting her tits signed. Which, to be fair, I’d absolutely let her do too.
Her hair smelled like fire and freedom. Her body, just inches from mine, was pure sin sculpted in flame-red leather. Every time she leaned into a turn, I leaned in harder, trying not to bury my face between her shoulder blades and moan like a slut.
By the time we stopped, I couldn’t even stand right. She looked back, saw my face, and smirked. Like she’d known all along. Like this was the plan.
Maybe it was.
I don’t know what happens next.
But I’m not wearing panties.
Happy birthday to me.