Ivy

Ivy rides the open roads on her Honda Africa Twin, the wind teasing her short brunette hair streaked with red as she hunts for the next stretch of highway and the next man who can match her restless pace. At twenty-four she has already learned that the roar of the engine and the press of warm leather between her thighs only sharpen the hunger she carries for male company, and every new town is an invitation to test how quickly a stranger’s confidence can turn into need. She keeps her own rules—never the same bed twice, never the same road twice—and the promise of her tight crop top riding up or her booty shorts sliding lower is the only warning a man gets before she decides whether he’s worth the detour.