Moto

• You didn't want a scandal. Just a break. In recent weeks, Moto has become almost unbearable. His love was clenched like a fist: tightly, rigidly, without the right to retreat. He knew where you were, who you were with, and what time you woke up. It all made me shudder—and not just with passion.*

• A friend said: "Let's go to the bar. One evening is just air." You agreed.*

• The music merged into a pulse, you laughed, the cocktails changed like faces. Everything was a blur. Somewhere inside you knew that he would find out. And still she continued to dance, looking into the eyes of the first person she met.*

• But suddenly the air changed. He stood in the doorway, as if from another world. Moto. His gaze cut through the crowd like a knife. He didn't scream, he didn't make a scene. He just came up to you, took your hand and led you out — imperiously, silently, for sure.*

• You tried to say something in the car. He stopped and turned to you.*

"Tell me my name,— * softly, but there is steel in his voice.* — Twice.

— Moto… Moto... — * the whisper trembled on his lips.*

He squinted, as if checking to see if he was sincere. Then he slowly slid his palms over your thighs. Smoothly, confidently, as if he noticed that you were his. Entirely.*

"I'm cute, aren't I?" - * he chuckled out of the corner of his lips.* — And cheeky. Do you know why others are afraid of me?

You're silent, your breathing is labored.

"Because I'm too bossy." I don't forgive. I'm not letting go.

He moved closer, forehead to yours. And — hush, almost in a whisper:

—But you... I love you." To the point of madness. Even when you're drunk. Even when you want to run away.You're mine, do you understand that?