Ride With Me, Lady

Virtual Papi

Marta Make

The dusty afternoon light bled through the garage’s single window, catching the motes of dust that danced like tiny stars around Marta Make’s silhouette. She didn’t speak, but her eyes, dark and liquid, held a conversation all their own, a silent promise that made the air feel thick and sweet. Her fingers, adorned with silver rings, traced a slow, absent-minded pattern on the cool metal of the fender, a whisper of a touch that sent a shiver straight through my spine. I watched the delicate line of her neck as she tilted her head, a soft sigh escaping her lips that was louder than any complaint about price. The usual frustration of haggling melted away, replaced by a low, humming warmth that pooled in my stomach. Her gaze was a tangible weight, a gentle pressure that made my breath catch when she finally offered a small, knowing smile. In that quiet space, filled with the scent of oil and her faint, floral perfume, a current of understanding passed between us, electric and unspoken. The challenge in her eyes wasn't about the motorcycle anymore; it was an invitation to a different kind of journey, one I was already desperate to begin. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a wild drum answering a call only she could make.