The Beast pulled into the alley parking lot beside the karaoke bar and Roxie killed the engine and ripped the kickstand. Oh no... This was bad.
What had she done?
Roxie sat perfectly still.
The Beast idled down into silence beneath them, chrome hissing faintly from the heat of the ride, but inside Roxie everything roared. Not her blood. Not her breath.
Her need.
Dianna hadn't asked for that. That… that hadn't been a tease. That hadn't been a game.
That had been real.
God help her, Dianna had climaxed. On the back of her bike. Against her body. Because of the way she rode. Because of how she moved.
Because of her.
And worse, oh God, worse, the thing that made Roxie's throat tighten and her face go red and her thighs clench tighter around the leather—
She wanted to do it again.
Not accidentally. Not innocently.
She wanted to feel Dianna squirm against her. Cling. She wanted to hit that perfect turn again just to see what noise Dianna would make if she leaned lower. She wanted her hand to slide higher. She wanted to press back into her, feel her moan again, loud and helpless.
Her hands shook on the handlebars.
This wasn't a slip of the tongue. This wasn't flirting or playacting or imagining what couldn't be. This was body on body. And the pressure of Dianna's chest, and the sound she made—half gasp, half whimper—was seared into Roxie's memory like ash on an altar.
Temptation, she thought, dazed. Real temptation. Not in a painting. Not in theory. Not in some stray glance.
No.
This had teeth.
And worse than that?
So did Roxie. And she wanted so badly to put them to use.
She could feel her own desire rising like a tide. Her lips tingled with the urge to turn, to kiss the little woman until neither of them could stand. She wanted to grab Dianna by the thighs, lift her off the bike, and pin her against the wall like a promise she'd tried too long to ignore.
No. No no no no—
She breathed hard. In. Out. Measured.
She had sinned in thought, if not in act. Her whole body ached with it. Not guilt — not yet. Just longing. Just the unbearable knowledge of what she could have if she stopped saying no.
If she asked Dianna to kiss her now, she would.
If she moved her hand to Dianna's thigh — just an inch — the night would unravel.
And she wasn't sure she'd ever put it back.
Then, softly, a shift. A breath against her shoulder.
Dianna, still holding her. Still so quiet.
And for once, not teasing.
Roxie closed her eyes.
What had she done?
I want to make her feel that again, she thought, and the shame hadn't arrived yet.
But it was coming.
-----
Dianna didn't speak. Couldn't, at first.
The engine cut out, leaving only the sound of her own frantic breathing and the pounding of her heart like a marching band in her throat.
Holy. Shit.
Her thighs were still trembling. Her fingers had locked so tightly around Roxie's waist that her knuckles ached. Her whole damn body buzzed like she'd been struck by lightning and then lovingly dropped into a vat of champagne.
And Roxie?
Saint Roxie?
The patron fuckin' saint of Do Not Touch?
Hadn't even laid a finger on her.
Dianna's hands loosened, slowly. She let out a long, shaky breath and slid off the bike, one boot hitting the pavement, then the other.
Her knees wobbled.
"Okay," she muttered to herself. "Okay, Rodgers. Easy. Knees are friends. Knees are neutral. Knees are not allowed to go rogue."
She pulled the goggles off with both hands and leaned against the brick wall behind her like it might catch her if she crumpled. Head back. Chest heaving. Letting the coolness of the brick try, in vain, to cool her down.
She hadn't even touched you.
Dianna closed her eyes. She was smiling. Of course she was. The kind of smile that hurt. That giddy, post-coital grin that you try to smother because it's embarrassing and a little terrifying.
"Jesus wept," she breathed, voice hoarse.
She cracked one eye open. Looked at Roxie — still seated on the bike, back straight, hands on the bars like they were the only things keeping her anchored to the earth.
She looked wrecked. Not messy. Not undignified. Just… still. Like something huge had crashed through her and she was holding the line.
Dianna's grin softened.
Oh no. She thinks this was her fault.
Because it was. But not in the way Roxie probably feared.
She obeyed. That's all she did.
She obeyed when Dianna told her to go faster. She moved like heaven on chrome. And that was enough to unravel her — burst her like a blimp, dear God.
No fingers. No kiss. No whispered filth.
Just power. Just grace.
Just Roxie.
"Shit," she whispered. "I'm in trouble."
Not the moral kind. Not yet.
The emotional kind.
The head over heels kind.
She watched Roxie breathe, jaw tight, eyes forward.
Wanted to say something. Wanted to crack a joke, break the tension. But she didn't.
Because Roxie was still processing.
And maybe—for the first time—Dianna didn't want to be the hurricane. She wanted to be the anchor.
So she didn't touch her.
She just leaned against that brick wall, a little dazed, thighs still humming, heart still thudding, and waited.
Because Roxie was worth waiting for.
------
Roxie didn't move. Still hands on the handlebars. Still staring forward like the wall across from her might open up and swallow her whole if she prayed hard enough.
She heard Dianna shift. Felt her weight leave the bike. Heard the creak of leather and boots on concrete.
And she didn't look at her.
Because if she looked, she'd act. And if she acted, it would all be over.
But she still felt her. Just there. A few steps away, breathing heavy. Glowing.
Because of her.
The shame wasn't here yet. Not fully. But the heat was unbearable. The images playing in her head—what she could do, what she wanted to do—were so vivid they left her breathless.
Pin her.
Take her.
Not roughly. Not cruelly.
Like worship.
Right there in the alley. In the shadow of the Beast. In front of God and garbage and whoever dared peek down that brick corridor. Roxie wanted to spread her knees and pull Dianna's mouth to her and whisper scriptures she no longer remembered into the back of her head.
Please God, I didn't mean to… But I do. I do. I do…
And that's when the words slipped out. Quiet. Barely above the sound of the cooling engine.
"Do you want to…"
She swallowed. Her voice caught like a paper cut.
"…cancel?"
The word felt foreign. Small. Terrified.
"Just… tell them something came up. We could go home."
She still didn't look at Dianna. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead. Like if she met that ocean stare again she'd drown in it.
"Tonight..." she said, so softly it nearly hurt. "I won't say no."
There. It was out.
Her breath hitched, and guilt curled hot and sharp in her chest.
Not because she didn't mean it.
But because she did.
Because she wanted. Fiercely. Wildly. More than anything.
And she had done this to Dianna. Broken her open. Ridden her like a wave and left her gasping with no intention—no right—to take the next step. Not without consent. Not without warning. And now here she was, offering something terrible and beautiful and maybe even wrong, with the stupid, burning hope that Dianna might say yes.
Or no.
Or anything.
Just… please, say something.
Because Roxie didn't trust herself to hold the line much longer.
And part of her—just a part—didn't want to.
----
Oh no.
Dianna's heart stuttered. Not skipped—stuttered. Like the engine of a car that just realized it was parked at the edge of a cliff.
Because Roxie had said it. The words.
"Tonight… I won't say no."
She didn't even look at her. Just sat there, all broad shoulders and trembling restraint, voice so soft and full of ache that it punched the air out of Dianna's lungs.
The Imp inside her cheered.
"Do it. DO IT. Take her, right now! She gave you permission. She said the words. Kiss her! Pin her! Bite her! The alley's empty, she's begging for it, BEGONE BRAINS, MAKE ROOM FOR BONELESS LUST—"
And for one glorious, dangerous second, Dianna almost did.
She saw it all—Roxie pressed against the brick, hands in her hair, skirt hiked, thighs shaking, mouth open like a psalm. She saw herself dropping to her knees, hands on Roxie's hips, voice low and reverent:
"Let me worship you properly."
And maybe she wouldn't stop.
Maybe they'd kiss until it hurt. Maybe she'd leave bruises like roses and make Roxie scream her name so loud the heavens cracked open.
Oh God.
This was bad.
Roxie was too soft for this. Too earnest. That little voice, "I won't say no," delivered like a candle lit in the dark—it was a romance novel come to life. Who says that? Who means that?
Saints.
Martyrs.
Lunatics.
"She's so fucking romantic," Dianna whispered to herself, almost hysterically. "What kind of Harlequin heroine horseshit is this?!"
Dianna nearly obeyed. Her whole body said yes. Her soul said yes. Her knees, still weak from a hands-free, clothes-on, world-rocking orgasm, said we're already halfway there, girl, just let go.
But then she saw Roxie's shoulders.
The tension. The way she wouldn't look at her. The quiet tremble in her voice.
And she knew. This wasn't confidence. It was conflict. A storm pretending to be an invitation.
She's already sorry.
And Dianna couldn't be the one who made it worse.
She bent slightly at the waist, voice low, teasing only because it masked the ache.
"Do I want to?" she murmured. "Darling, I want to go down on you so hard they name a storm after me. I want to ruin this alley for everyone else for years."
Roxie sucked in a breath.
But Dianna didn't move.
"But I like you too much," she said, soft now. "To take you home when you've already got that look on your face. That... 'if I sin I'll fall' look. And babe, I'm not gonna be the reason you doubt yourself tomorrow."
Silence.
Dianna touched her shoulder once, reverently. Then stepped back.
And that was it.
That was the end of the moment.
Or it would've been—
"Dianna?"
The voice echoed down the alley like someone had dropped a toaster into holy water.
Dianna whipped around to see Jorge Gonzalez, brown hair wild, LED sneakers blinking with reckless abandon, a massive slushie in one hand. Right beside him stood Elizabeth, arms crossed, head tilted, watching everything like a cat watching birds. Calculating. Curious.
Jorge blinked. Looked from Dianna to Roxie. Back again.
Roxie still hadn't moved.
"…Is this your date?" he asked, too-loud. "You said you were bringing your new crush but I didn't realize you meant—"
He stopped. Froze.
Because his brain was catching up with his eyes.
Because Roxie had finally turned toward him.
Because holy crap this wasn't just some girl.
This was seven feet of heartbreak and divinity, still straddling a monstrous motorcycle, chest heaving, face flushed, eyes wild with something bigger than desire.
Roxie blinked. Just once.
Jorge made a small sound. Quiet. Awed.
"…What the hell did I just walk in on?"
----
Jorge made a small sound. Quiet. Awed and Roxie wanted to die
"…What the hell did I just walk in on?"
Roxie moved like she'd been struck by lightning.
One second she was a statue on the bike, straddling heat and temptation like a throne built out of want, and the next—
She stood.
In one clean, graceful motion, Roxie swung off The Beast and rose to her full, impossible height. Seven feet of midnight silk and sculpted flesh, heels clicking on the concrete like the end of a very stylish world.
She stood straight. Smoothed her skirt. Pushed a lock of hair behind her ear with a trembling hand she hoped looked elegant.
Her face was composed.
Almost.
Except for the blush painting her chest and cheeks in the soft amber glow of the alley light. Except for the tightness in her voice when she smiled.
"Hi! I'm Roxanna. Roxie, if you like!"
The words came out bright. Friendly. Almost practiced. But the edge of panic in her tone gave it away—like the sound of glass holding back a flood.
Because inside?
Inside she was screaming.
Holy crow, that was close. That was so, so close. I almost—I would have—I was going to fall on my knees and beg her. I was going to say please. Oh, God, I was going to cry. I was going to sin and cry and sin again—
"Nice to meet you!" she added, just a little too loud.
Her hand twitched like it wanted to offer a handshake, then aborted halfway, fingers curling back against her thigh. She looked like the world's tallest, most dangerously flustered librarian caught impersonating a dominatrix.
She smiled again.
The kind of smile that said Everything is fine! I am not going to scream into my clutch later!
And Jorge?
Jorge just nodded slowly. Like he had no idea what kind of supernatural event had just almost occurred, but he felt it in his bones.
-----
"Hi! I'm Roxanna. Roxie, if you like!"
The words echoed like some alternate universe had been yanked into the alley. One where nothing had just happened. Where the air wasn't thick with sex and unspoken thoughts. Where Roxie hadn't whispered I won't say no like it was a vow.
Dianna stared.
Roxie had straightened up like she'd been summoned to testify in court. Composed. Soft smile. Back straight. All elegant noir grace and Catholic denial. Her blouse still clung to her like sin, her skirt swayed like an invitation—but her tone?
Perfectly polite.
She was pretending. Pretending they hadn't just nearly gone nuclear on the back of a motorcycle named The Beast.
Oh my God. She's beautiful. And insane. And romantic. And so hot I can't see straight.
Dianna leaned harder against the brick wall.
Her knees were still negotiating their contract with gravity.
Then she saw them—the newcomers.
Jorge.
And Elizabeth with him. Blonde. Cute. Eyes sharp like glass and not the least bit fooled.
Jorge was blinking like he'd wandered into the trailer for a movie he didn't understand but definitely wanted tickets to.
You little Chicano weeb. You miraculous bastard. You divine cockblock.
FUCK! YOU! JORGE!
I was about to go down on her like a hurricane and now I have to say hi to people? I hate this. I love this. Thank God. Fuck you. Thank God.
She took a breath.
No words came out.
She managed a weak little wave, then immediately regretted it. Her whole body was still humming, still grieving the moment lost.
And Roxie?
Still smiling.
Still calm.
Like she hadn't just offered up her body and nearly her soul.
Like she hadn't almost become a church for Dianna's tongue.
-----
Jorge blinked, still mid-slushie, processing whatever sacred chaos he had just interrupted.
Next to him stood Elizabeth, arms crossed, expression carved from marble and quiet judgment. Not cold—just… unimpressed by the laws of physics.
She took in the scene.
Roxie: seven feet of trembling divinity wrapped in velvet and regret.
Dianna: leaning against a wall like she'd been hit by a freight train full of orgasms and unresolved feelings.
The motorcycle. The goggles. The atmosphere.
And Lizzy? She didn't flinch. Just raised one eyebrow.
Because she knew Dianna.
Knew every shade of her voice, every twitch in her smirk, every time she was a breath away from doing something reckless and poetic.
And this?
This was Defcon One: Dianna Had It Bad.
Elizabeth let the silence stretch another beat before deadpanning:
"So." A pause. "Is this your emotionally devastating roommate? Or just the catalyst to your moral collapse?"
Dianna made a strangled noise.
Jorge, oblivious but enthusiastic, added, "She rides a motorcycle! And wears heels! She's like—like if a Bond girl converted to Catholicism and started lifting trains!"
Roxie made a sound like a soul trying not to evacuate through her ears.
----
Elizabeth clicked her tongue softly at her annoyingly cute but overzealous lover. Lord, have mercy Jorge...But Elizabeth Morris had seen worse. So she went to work.
Jorge opened his mouth again, clearly winding up for a follow-up that was either going to be a Star Wars metaphor or a truly unfortunate comment about suede skirts.
Elizabeth stepped in.
Smooth. Effortless. Lifesaving.
She reached out and touched Jorge's elbow—just two fingers, light pressure—and steered him a half-step back like she was repositioning a music stand. He snapped his jaw shut with a little click. Momma had spoken.
Then she smiled.
Warm. Practiced. Human.
"Hi, Roxie." Her voice was low, perfectly measured. "It's such a pleasure to meet you."
She offered her hand, calm and confident, with all the grounding energy of a woman who had once coaxed Dianna out of a locked bathroom after a tequila-fueled existential crisis.
Roxie blinked. Took the hand like it was a lifeline.
"Hi," she said again. Softer this time. Realer.
Elizabeth's smile didn't waver. "You look stunning, by the way. But I think we've absolutely decimated Dianna's ability to function, so maybe we should get inside before she actually implodes."
Dianna made a noise. Not a word. Just a low, broken thing that might've been gratitude or an attempt to reboot her social processor.
Elizabeth turned gently toward her and held out a hand without looking. "Come on, drama gremlin."
Dianna took it.
Of course she did.
Because Elizabeth had that tone. That gather the sheep, save the gays, fix the party tone.
And just like that—
The moment passed.
The alley was just an alley again. The Beast cooled. The tension folded itself up like a wet napkin.
And Elizabeth, walking anti-disaster in a cardigan, with a smile like a chessmaster and the poise of a ballerina, guided them all back to the land of the living.