She loves the feeling of the wind ripping through her short hair, tugging at her sleeves, his body bracketed between her thighs as he steers the bike around another obstacle. His back is warm under the leather, and she gives in to the temptation to rest her cheek against him, sheltering her face from the draft. She can feel his muscles shift and tense as he takes in her nearness, but she knows that short of stopping the bike there is nothing he can do about it. So she takes advantage. Every opportunity to make a connection; every glimmer of a gap in his walls.
Her hands rest loosely over his hips, tightening only slightly to maintain her balance each time they lean into a curve. She hooks one finger through a belt loop, knowing it drags just a bit at his waistband; it probably bothers him, but she wants to keep him aware of her, a little off-kilter. It may not be fair, but she's tired of being fair and patient.
The next time he slows to take a turn she lets her hand lift and slide, just an inch, under the side of his shirttail, and allows her short, blunt nails to graze the skin above his belt for a second before settling back into her grip. It all could have been completely accidental. He flinches, the front fork of the bike swerving just the tiniest bit off of true. She doesn't want to molest him, she just wants to spark what she knows is there already.
Oh, who is she kidding? What she really wants to do is make him pull the bike over, tear off her clothes and climb him like a staircase, rub herself all over him and straddle him in the tall grass and have his hands on every inch of her. She blames the bike's constant vibration, not to mention the proximity of the man. Either her nose got reprogrammed to deal with the ever-present stink of bodies, living and dead, or else he just has a natural scent under all that dirt and walker filth that her hormones instinctively like; either way, the smell of him sets a slow burn inside her.
When the gates close behind the bike and she goes to swing down, she plants one hand on his thigh and clutches at the long muscle there, as though for balance. She hears his breath catch and turns the touch into a casual pat, smiling thanks back over her shoulder as she heads inside. His eyes are hot, and she's suddenly unsure whether he's just discomfited by the ride, or if he suspects and resents what she's been doing.
Did I push it too far? It's so hard to be this close and no closer. I'm reaching in the dark, here. I don't know how to break through.
Back when she was a wild girl, she remembers, she once had been an ardent disciple of skin and touch, both giving and receiving. Naked skin in all its forms, the velvety-smooth and the rough and calloused and everything in between. Fingernails, too. Not for digging in - well, most of the time not for digging in - but just a little scratch, a little edge, waking up all those long expanses in between the sensitive bits. Wispy, soft touches set her teeth on edge, and not in a good way. She prefers firm pressure, long strokes, and that's how she likes to touch others as well. Right now she purely itches to lay her hands on Daryl, to knead his rigid shoulders, stroke his brow, learn him by heart with just the palms of her hands, her fingertips. For now, though, that will have to remain a fever dream.
It's going to be another long and restless night.