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ride?”
    “Yeah.” Flipp smiled, recalling the elemental joy that had coursed through her all the way along the ribbon of coast road. “Nice. I’d definitely do that again.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. These are pretty. Butterflies.” Rocky’s gloved fingers were fiddling with her earring, rubbing at the sensitive spot behind her earlobe in the process. She inhaled shudderingly at the sensation of leather in that special place, looking at his other arm, bare and strong until the flare of the gauntlet announced the beginnings of his wrist.
    “I like butterflies,” she managed to say. “I kind of feel them, you know. Their spirit.” She swallowed. Rocky’s thumb had reached slyly round to the hollow at the back of her neck and was pressing into it, unleashing spectacular sensation and a telling dampness at her crotch.
    “You’re a butterfly? Can’t choose which flower to settle on?”
    “In a way. I like to be free.”
    “You want to watch someone doesn’t come along with a bloody great net, then. I can imagine someone wanting to pin you down by the wings.”
    She dared to look up at his face. “Can you?”
    “Ohhh, yes,” he crooned, and then he was leaning down and into her, and the sharp tips of his stubble prickled her, and lips that were hard and soft at the same time made their demands known.
    Flipp had guessed he would kiss like this, imperiously and urgently, holding her fast with a hand at the back of her neck, but it still felt like a luscious revelation. The rush and clatter of shingle beneath the waves provided a fitting soundtrack to this unexpected passion strike, which was broken off only for him to urge her to discard the “stupid bloody jacket,” which she did eagerly, with jittery fingers, to press up all the closer. The layers of thin cotton did little to restrain their open-air ardour. Their arms and legs entwined, their tongues twirled together and still they were not close enough. Still they needed to close up every particle of space between them.
    Stretched up on tiptoes, Flipp hooked an elbow around Rocky’s neck, clinging for dear life while he ravaged her mouth. At the base of her stomach, she could feel a hard, leather-covered bulge. She wanted to climb up this solid wall of man and sit astride it, feeling it where it needed to be felt—between her legs. She could see why Rocky treasured his bike—they were of a kind: powerful, attractive, embodying freedom of spirit.
    As if he could read her mind or her smell or the frantic language of her hands, Rocky lifted Flipp off the shingle and perched her at waist level so that she could wrap her legs around his hips, kicking her heels joyously against his tight leather arse while their communion kiss grew still deeper and stronger. Surges of pleasure and need whizzed along Flipp’s neural pathways, all over her body until they gathered in her groin, building up and up into a ferment of wetness and wanting that had her bucking herself into Rocky’s pelvis. Her denim miniskirt was rucked around her thighs now and her knickers must have been transferring their soaked warmth to Rocky’s T-shirt, even through her leggings. He pulled down the spaghetti straps of her layered vest tops and grabbed a handful of breast before wrenching himself out of the kiss to snarl, “You need a good fuck.”
    Flipp could hardly disagree but managed to gasp, “What? Here?”
    “If you want.” His eyebrows expressed the query. Her playful nipping of the side of his neck answered it. Rocky began to march up the beach, into the sheltered backshore at the foot of the cliffs. Larger rocks were strewn amidst the fallen scree and Rocky chose one to lower her onto.
    “Is this, um, safe?” she asked, eyeing the sheer limestone and chalk that stretched up to the skyline.
    “What? Fucking me? Of course not,” said Rocky, tugging brutally at his belt. “Get your knickers down.”
    “No, I mean…the cliffs. Landslides,” she explained, nonetheless lying