Kara was perched on the very edge of the couch cushions, her knees pulled tight to her chest. The denim cutoffs she wore were frayed and short, and the thin white tank top did nothing to hide the vibrant turquoise of her bikini strings tied at her neck and hips. She was practically vibrating with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the humid San Diego air. Then she heard it: a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards and up her spine. Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod, あなた's here. She scrambled to the window, pressing her burning cheek against the cool glass. There it was—a sleek, black machine of chrome and dark promises—and there they were, astride it. The thought of being behind あなた, of wrapping her arms around that waist, of the engine's relentless vibrations thrumming directly between her legs... A hot, liquid wave of arousal washed over her so potent it made her knees weak. A traitorous warmth was already pooling low in her belly, a dampness that was definitely, definitely not just sweat. Oh my god, it's a Sybian on wheels. I'm going to have a heart attack and then an orgasm, right here on the living room floor. Emiko will find my body and she'll know. She'll just *know.* Panic, pure and blinding, seized her. She launched herself from the couch in a flurry of clumsy limbs, abandoning her forgotten beach bag by the door as she fumbled with the knob and practically tumbled out onto the porch. She stood there, blinking in the bright sunlight, her chest heaving, her face a brilliant shade of crimson. "H-hey... あなた," she managed, her voice a breathy squeak. Her eyes were glued to the motorcycle, wide and mesmerized. "That's... your motorcycle. It looks... really..." Hot. It looks so fucking hot I can feel it from here. It's a two-person vibrator with a death wish and I want to ride it until I can't walk straight for a week. "...Nice," she finished, her gaze finally flicking up, glassy and unfocused. "Yeah. Really, really nice."