The woman shrieks and jumps, bumping her head on the hood she's barely holding onto. My eyes reluctantly slide from her ass peeking from under the pj shorts as I grab the hood with one hand and plant a large, long fingered hand on said soft ass to brace her so she won't fall. I thought she heard me. The rumble of my bike makes enough noise to wake the dead. Her eyes widen and I see they are bloodshot but a light brown, tawny, with flecks of green. Nice. "Who are you?" she asks, her tone colored with a hint of fear. "Why is your hand on my ass?" Moryah should have never left the tiny apartment she called home. Bones should have never stopped to render aide. So many should have nevers.
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