𝙍𝘾|18+ "ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴍɪɴᴇ," he grinned, darting out his tongue to lick her bare thigh, nipping the delicate skin as if he was claiming her as his. "I-I fucking hate you," she whimpered, tipping her head back to rest on the shattered mirror, his hand com...
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˜"*°•.˜"*°• chapter three •°*"˜.•°*"˜
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"Fuck you, Rafe Cameron"
If you had told Lydia Thornton last night that she'd been riding Rafe Cameron's motorcycle and clutching onto his muscled torso, she'd most likely laugh in your face (or even cry, who knows).
"Hold tight, Thornton!" he yelled over the distinct rev of his bike. Small granules of sand scattered irregularly as the wheels led them to the unknown. To Rafe, the bike was a constant reminder he was in control. It was physical poetry, his ode to living by the freedoms that ignited his body. His surroundings flashed in a kaleidoscope of colours, and he nearly let out a wild laugh - only to remember he had a snarky woman clinging onto his waist.
Lydia, on the other hand, dreaded the feeling. Sand stuck to her chestnut hair, grit and dirt attacking her fawn skin, which was already scorching from the summer heat. It was almost like he was controlling the weather, she thought, just to spite her. The blonde boy swiftly accelerated the vehicle, forcing her hands to grip tighter around his waist or fall off.
The Cameron boy couldn't help but smirk underneath his helmet.
The motorcycle made its way further and further away from figure eight, and huge, gauche mansions were switched for dilapidated old houses. Classic designer polo shirts and summer dresses were nowhere to be seen. A quiet gasp escaped her cherry coated lips as they pulled up to a rather decimate looking house, buried away in the wilderness.
