She

Her nails dig in wherever they can.
Her eyes are as wide as they go and her back and head are pressed into the fine leather seat of the Bugatti.
A multitude of city lights race over the smooth contours of the automobile.
She feels as though she can trust this man next to her. He wears his beard well. They're chic these days of course but his actually accentuates his chin rather than hides it. All men look better in a good tux but a chosen few can make it fly. His hands and feet are a blur through the turns. It gets warm between her legs but she resists the urge to squirm. Concentrating she is determined to clear the champagne from her forehead and stomach but as her eyes begine to focus all she can see is the blur of his face and hands. She thinks of how confident he seems. Struggling she frees a hand and pulls herself forward to see better what is going on. It's then her eyes get even wider and she wets the leather seat beneath her.

HOT DAMN!!!!!!!!!!! & Hell Yeahh!!

They are weaving around other cars like they are standing still. She thinks there is no fucking way he is going to make this upcoming turn at this speed. She grips tighter and realizes she's actually screaming but she can't hear herself. She looks over at him and he is stone. He downshifts and the powerful engine screams in compliance. Through her seat she can feel the tires grip and join the fight. Then he shifts again and her body is once again gripped by the seat causing her breasts to bounce. The body of the car trembles slightly as it lightly scrapes a cement sidewall. Her chest heaves and a lone bead of sweat tries to run down between her breasts. Her nipples are below zero rock hard. Her lower spine tingles and a spark rockets up her spine to the base of her skull causing the hairs to stand straight up. “If we survive this I'm going to fuck him so FUCKING hard.” She thinks.

It's then over the noise she can hear the wine of more than one rice rocket.

She tries to look left over her shoulder but the seat-belt he demanded she wear commands her to not move. Somehow someone has caught up to them at this insane speed and they draw what looks like weapons. She looks again at him and it's then to her amazement she realizes she is still screaming.

Then a hard jolt and sparkles of glass are everywhere. She can feel the deceleration of the car before she can see it. The night's lights appear to orbit around the car's field of view. She feels a momentary weightlessness but her mind knows very well that a hit is coming and she quietly says a prayer. Her face is peppered by little shards of glass. She takes a cold breath and makes a wish before she is slammed back to reality. The car hits twice before sliding to a stop.

It is very quiet and dark. Her arms hang strait down and she groans. She hears a cry and wonders if it's from herself. Then there is a crunch of glass underfoot. She looks but her dashing driver is not in his seat. She fumbles for her seatbelt and her knees quickly slam to the ground.

There is a haze that strains her eyes but she can make out outstretched hand. He pulls her from the wreck and up to him. She lays her cheek on his chest and tries to clear her head. The wreckage is strewn all around. The smell is what assaults the senses. Oil, smoke and flesh. Disgusting. She grips his hand tight and he brushes the hair from her brow. Releasing her grip he surveys their surroundings. The first bike is twisted. He lifts the second and sits offering for her to join him.
It's then she shivers and wishes she had taken dad's karate lessons more serious.
As soon as her ass is in the seat he is off and running. Once again her remaining nails dig in to save her life.

The cabin?

No cabins

Why would a cabin come to mind?

Safe house, fully stocked, in the shadows.

Oh. Makes sense. IN THE CITY?

Think Charlton Heston Omega Man.

Somewhat.
I had two thoughts, city one, country other, ie cycle winding out along country road to a fully stocked ...
But for city, oh yeah, where easier to hide than in millions of people? Especially if supplies are simply downstairs.

Low lights. Throw jacket to the chair. Grab a glass with ice and pour some Macallan 1946.

Exactly, but I usually catch the direct shuttle to EWR though. One of these years we need to open a bottle of whatever.

But for story line, rewrite:
... he pours two..., and the gal gets the first drink as he holds her trembling hands, so she doesn't spill...

She expects to choke but the warm fluid slides down her throat. She can feel the warmth all the way down. His strong hand takes her arm and draws her up to him. The light of the fire dances on his face.