"Yes, Shapiro. I bought you pants. And maybe I hoped you would dress up for me tonight."
The words had been tossed over Dianna's shoulder, flippant and sharp-edged, like most things she said when she didn't want them to matter. But they did. They mattered more than Roxie could bear.
So here she stood, alone in front of the closet she hadn't known existed until this evening, the closet Dianna had filled for her.
Custom pieces. Folded silks. Cropped jackets. High-waisted slacks in deep emeralds and soft charcoals. A pair of boots so slick and sharp they looked like they could whisper seductions and declarations of war in the same breath.
All in her size.
A miracle in itself.
Roxie ran her fingers over the hangers like they might hum under her touch. This wasn't a wardrobe. It was a shrine — to attention, to mischief, to care without strings. And tucked between every hem and hanger was the unbearable reality that Roxie didn't know how to say thank you with words.
So she'd do it in the only language she had left.
She would honor the request.
Not as a joke. Not modestly. Not like a shy girl playing dress-up in someone else's life.
No. Not tonight.
Tonight, Roxie Shapiro — seven feet tall and aching with old wounds and quiet longing — would choose to be seen.
If Dianna wanted her to dress up, she would dress up.
She would lean into the shape Dianna had carved out just for her in this tiny kingdom of safety and sarcasm and accidental sanctuary.
One night. Just one.
She'd put on something that made Dianna's blood run hot. As a thank you, of course. Not because Roxie burned to see that hunger in those wild ocean eyes. Not because it made her legs weak and her chest tighten. Not because it made her feel like a woman, not a weapon.
No. Certainly not that.
This wasn't about temptation. Or indulgence. Or the fact that when Dianna looked at her like that, like she might fall to her knees out of sheer want, Roxie felt like more than a soldier. More than a superhero.
She felt wanted.
And maybe… maybe for one night, that could be enough.
She took down a fitted skirt in black suede and a halter blouse in plum so deep it looked sinful under the warm lights. She didn't recognize the brands, but the cut was flawless — designed for hips that had no business being modest and a back strong enough to carry the world.
Her bruises ached when she moved. But she didn't stop.
She pulled on the halter, smoothed it over breasts that could stop traffic, and stepped into the skirt. The halter tied high, just under her neck, leaving her shoulders bare — a frame carved in flesh and intent.
She paused at the mirror. For a breath.
And then another.
She looked like… temptation. And it scared her.
But Dianna wanted this.
So Roxie would walk into that dive bar in high heels and blood-wine silk like she was born for it.
For Dianna. Just for tonight.
---
Dianna was halfway down the stairs from her room when she caught sight of her.
And missed the next step entirely.
"Shit—!"
Her hand caught the railing just in time to save her from an undignified tumble, but the momentum still sent her stumbling down the last few steps in a mess of boots, panic, and sheer horny vertigo.
Because standing by the front door — calm, composed, devastating — was Roxie.
And sweet merciful mother of everything good and holy, the sight of her should've come with a warning label. Or a surgeon general's note. Or a fire extinguisher.
The long black skirt hugged her hips and legs like it had been tailored by sin itself, high-waisted and draped with an elegance that didn't hide a thing. The top — sleeveless and dark like crushed velvet under candlelight — framed those broad shoulders and the soft curve of her throat like art in motion. Her hair was swept to one side, careless and flawless all at once. She looked like the dark queen of some secret cathedral where lust and reverence were the same thing.
And Dianna? Dianna looked like a punk gremlin in last night's trouble. Leather, mesh, and lace had never felt more underdressed. Dianna was not a subtle woman, nor reserved. She had gone for max "fuck me like you hate me" vibes. Fishnet leggings that lead up to a thong (recently retrieved from its place on the ceiling fan) which was covered by a barely legal miniskirt. The top she had picked out was so scandalously mesh that her lacey black bra was easily visible through the shirt. And the finishing touch had been a spike choker that screamed "bite me" in seventeen different languages.
But Dianna felt like she had gone dumpster diving at Hot Topic compared to the absolutely noir elegance of *her*. Saint Roxie, Patron Saint of Thirst Traps. Every line of the woman was covered for decency but it hid absolutely nothing. In fact it screamed the promise that if you convinced Roxie to touch you, you would die gloriously fighting for air... Just so that she could keep touching you.
"You—" Dianna's voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "You can't just— That's illegal, Shapiro."
Roxie tilted her head, that delicate twist of amusement tugging at her lips. "You said dress up."
"I said— I—" Dianna gestured vaguely. "I didn't say slay me on sight, you absolute menace. Jesus Christ!"
"You think He'd approve?" Roxie asked softly, eyebrow arched.
Dianna grinned — all teeth and hunger and trying very hard not to combust — and shot back, "Not even a little. He'd be on His knees, too."
Roxie's face didn't change, but the temperature in the room did. The light in her eyes dimmed, just slightly. Not anger, not chill. Just the quiet flicker of something firm, immovable, older than flirtation.
"Don't," she said, gently but without budging. "Not Him."
Dianna blinked, breath catching. Not because she was ashamed — but because she understood. Somehow. That this was one of the few things Roxie wouldn't bend on. Not even for her.
"Right," she said quickly, hands up in surrender. "Sorry. That was— Yeah, nah. That was out of line."
The air shifted again, tension slipping back into something brighter. Roxie nodded once. The moment passed. But it didn't vanish. It stayed, like a heartbeat under the skin — a reminder of the spine beneath all that...
"You're still staring," Roxie murmured.
Dianna exhaled, shook her head like she could rattle loose the daze. "I am. And if I die tonight, I want it on record it was worth it."
"Stop being dramatic." Roxie told her, flushing to her ears.
"No, seriously. One thigh twitch and I'm a chalk outline."
Roxie turned for the door, the soft sway of her skirt every bit the silent sermon of curves and control. "Come on, Rodgers. You said karaoke."
Dianna lingered a moment longer, watching her go, eyes wide and soul rattled.
"…I'm gonna need five minutes and a fan. Maybe a cold shower. Possibly an exorcism."
Despite the words...she followed, like Roxie's magnificent ass was her personal Pied Piper.
Still flustered. Still wrecked. But smiling like a woman who'd just glimpsed heaven, and would absolutely chase it through hell.
They descended the stairs with Roxie in the lead, Dianna doing her best not to trip over her own boots as Roxie walked in front of her — calm, composed, every movement devastatingly unhurried.
It wasn't fair. Nothing about Roxanna Shapiro was fair.
That skirt clung like a sin. Every sway of her hips was hydraulic, engineered for collapse. Dianna watched it move with the reverence of a starving monk eyeing meat on Friday, and she swore that Roxie was doing it on purpose.
Roxie paused at the bottom of the stairwell, glancing back with a subtle smile, like she knew exactly what Dianna had been watching. Dianna cleared her throat and quickly looked away.
"Right," she said, voice too high, "karaoke. Bus is—"
She turned on her heel and started toward the sidewalk.
She got exactly three steps before a hand closed around the back of her shirt — not hard, not rough, just firm. Like gravity remembered it had another setting.
"Rodgers," came the voice behind her. Low. Final.
Dianna stopped. Swallowed. "Yeah?"
"Change of plans." Roxie said. No *said* didn't cover it. She fuckin growled it at Dianna, commanded her attention. Then the larger woman grabbed her hand and pulled her around the corner into the alley at the side of the building. And there it sat.
Parked just off the side of the building in the glow of the security lights stood a beast of a motorcycle — black, chrome, enormous. The kind of machine that looked like it should only be driven by war criminals or fallen angels. It shimmered under the lights like something summoned rather than built.
Roxie approached it like it belonged to her body. She unzipped the side of her skirt a few more inches, just enough to reveal the faint glint of armored shorts beneath. From a side compartment she pulled out a second helmet and turned then smirked and put it back. "You're over 21. We're in Florida." Instead she pulled out a set of goggles
Held them out.
Waited.
Dianna didn't move.
"…You ride that?" she managed.
Roxie tilted her head. "Yes."
"That thing has girth."
"It does."
"And you expect me to ride behind you?"
"You afraid?"
Dianna narrowed her eyes. "No. I'm offended you didn't tell me sooner, Shapiro. We've been living together for weeks and this is how I find out you're the goddamn Ghost Rider?"
Roxie smiled. It was slow, wicked, full of scripture-shattering warmth. "I thought you liked surprises."
Dianna blinked. "I do, but usually they come with… I don't know, a safe word."
Roxie stepped closer, goggles still extended, and murmured, "Put them on, Rodgers."
Dianna took them like she was being knighted and swore internally, if this woman quotes the Song of Solomon while I'm gripping her hips I will spontaneously combust.
"Just a warning," Roxie added, walking toward The Beast, "it vibrates."
Dianna nearly dropped the goggles.
"Oh my God," she said under her breath.
Dianna had just gotten the goggles over her eyes when Roxie raised one long leg, mounted the bike with ease, and shifted her weight forward. A pause. A breath. Then she stomped once — clean, practiced, final.
The engine roared to life like a devil exhaling.
It wasn't just noise. It was presence — a guttural, snarling, diesel-fed growl that hit Dianna in the chest like a wave of pressure. A sound with teeth. She actually staggered half a step, heart jumping sideways in her chest, as the deep, pulsing thrum wrapped around her ribs and rattled her bones.
It was thunder wearing chrome. It was war translated into music. It was everything Dianna had never known she needed.
And then Roxie looked back at her, having put on riding goggles for herself.
She was straddling that monster like it was made for her — long back straight, shoulders steady, that midnight skirt fluttering just enough to hint at the muscle beneath. Her hair was tied back in a practical, too-tight braid, and that grin — that holy-hell-she-knew-what-she-was-doing grin — curled across her face like the start of a dirty novel.
Dianna's mouth went dry.
"Get on," Roxie said, voice nearly lost in the growl of the engine.
Dianna got on. She didn't so much climb as throw herself behind Roxie and cling like the last rational thought in her brain had just self-immolated. Her hands slid around that trim, strong waist — muscles solid under thin fabric — and her thighs pressed against Roxie's like prayer. As Dianna put her feet on the bitch pegs her whole body felt like it was buzzing now, and it wasn't the bike. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was everything.
Roxie leaned back just a little, enough for Dianna to hear her murmur, "Hold tight."
Dianna could barely think, let alone breathe. Tighter than this? she almost said. But her voice was gone, scattered somewhere behind her with all her morals and coherent brain function.
The Beast growled again. Roxie shifted gears.
And they took off like a bat out of hell.
----
They slipped into the city like thunder behind glass.
St. Petersburg was lit — golden along the waterfront, neon where the bars screamed loud, slick and slicker still from the rain earlier. Streetlights traced molten lines along Roxie's leather and muscle, and The Beast purred beneath them, low and knowing.
And Roxie?
Roxie rode like the city was hers. Like she'd earned it in blood and bruises and benediction, and now every streetlight bowed to her command. She weaved through traffic with the grace of something divine wearing temptation like perfume — leaning them into turns so hard Dianna felt the whole world tilt beneath her. Her weight shifted just so, every movement exact, deliberate, thrilling.
She was showing off.
And Dianna knew it.
Every gear change was a flirtation. Every hard acceleration a pulse-thudding caress. At one point they cut between a pickup and a tram, Roxie threading that massive diesel monster like a needle through a vein — and Dianna moaned. She swore she hadn't meant to. But it was caught in her throat, raw and real and swallowed by the wind.
Roxie didn't comment. She didn't have to. That damn grin had been lurking at the edge of her cheek ever since they pulled out of the alley — every mirror glance, every brush of movement saying "yeah, I hear you, kitten."
And maybe Dianna snapped.
Just a little.
Because the next time they leaned, deep and low into a curve, Dianna pressed herself tighter — one hand wrapping around Roxie's waist while the other slid up and under the edge of her open collar. Not to grope. Not exactly. Just to hold.
Then she stood up on the pegs, pressed her mouth against Roxie's ear.
And bit her.
Hard.
Roxie flinched like she'd been shot.
"Faster," Dianna whispered, breath hot. Command, not plea.
The throttle screamed a half-second later.
The Beast roared in response — like it wanted to devour the night whole. And Roxie… Roxie didn't hesitate. She opened up. Took the next red light like it was a suggestion, not a law. Cut between a cab and a city bus with liquid confidence, pushed harder, leaned deeper.
She was riding like a woman possessed. Or maybe just wanted.
Dianna clung to her like a heartbeat.
She wanted to apologize. She really did.
But instead, the dam broke, her whole body shook in that moment with something ancient and ecstatic. Unrepentant pleasure, like electricity exploding up from where her crotch met the seat. It tore through her svelte frame like a hurricane unleashed. All thought vanished.
---
Roxie felt the bite like judgment.
Not pain — not exactly. Not even surprise. It was heat. Blistering and electric. Dianna's teeth closed around the edge of her ear like they had every right to be there, like Roxie belonged to her. Then Dianna slid her hand under Roxie's shirt, and grabbed her in a place no hand had ever touched and for half a breath the world went white.
The Beast growled beneath her, translating confusion into motion, and she twisted the throttle harder than she meant to. The machine obeyed, screaming down the road as if called to sin.
Her heart stuttered behind her ribs.
She couldn't think — not clearly. The wind clawed past them, the streetlights blurred into pale fire, and Dianna clung to her like she wanted to fall and trusted Roxie to catch her. And maybe she would. Maybe she would catch her.
But who would catch Roxie?
The answer rose up unbidden: no one.
Because this was the edge. She could feel it. A single wrong move and it wasn't just virtue she'd lose — it was herself. Her composure. Her moral integrity, if the little woman behind her asked for it.
Dianna whispered "faster" like a prayer made of gasoline and bad ideas, and Roxie obeyed. Because of course she did. Because she was playing into it, into every tease and touch, every careful flex of thigh and calculated lean. She'd worn the skirt. She'd zipped the slit high on her hip. She'd wanted to be seen.
And now Dianna was seeing her.
And for the first time in her life — earnestly — Roxie wanted. Not to hold hands or brush fingers or fall asleep side by side in a pool of candlelight.
She wanted Dianna to devour her.
God forgive her, but she did.
Her hands gripped the handlebars tighter.
She was down bad. So catastrophically bad. And the worst part was the certainty in it. This wasn't a crush. This wasn't fleeting. It was a damnation she'd walked toward in heels and lipstick and a skirt Dianna had bought just for her. She wanted Dianna to squeeze her so badly it hurt...
Well. Crap.
She didn't say a word.
She just rode like Hell was chasing her. Because maybe it was.
Then why in God's infinite grace could she not stop watching the succubi that gripped her breasts in the mirror? And worse, why was she enjoying her reactions? That devilish expression...then Dianna shifted her hips forward and let out a choking sound, somewhere between a cry and squeal. Her hands tightened where she clung to Roxie and Roxie instantly looked in the mirror to check on her. The look on Dianna's face nearly made Roxie crash.