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“Hey,” Soren breathes out, pulling back just enough to gaze into my eyes. “Where’d you go?”
Unwilling to tell him what I’m thinking, I lift my chin. “Nowhere. I’m just waiting for you to give me more orgasms.”
He growls low in his throat, and it sends shivers down my spine. “I want you, Gail. All of you.”
His words fan the flames, and my body betrays me—or maybe it’s the most honest part of me right now. It responds to him, to the hard lines of his muscles that my hands explore, to the ink that tells stories I want to read over and over. This is crazy. Insane. But didn’t I vow to live a little?
“Then take me,” I challenge, my own desire surprising me with its intensity. “Show me how.”
And with those words, Soren’s restraint snaps. He kisses me again, harder, deeper, like he’s trying to climb inside my soul. Or maybe escape his own shadows. I understand that need—to lose yourself in another person, if only for a moment.
Soren’s hands become cartographers of desire on the topography of my skin, charting a course that leaves me breathless and needy. Every touch sparks as he maps the curves of my waist, the rise of my hips. Soren is fluent in the language of touch, each caress a word, each grasp a sentence in a story that’s writing itself onto my flesh.
“Jesus,” I pant, arching into his hands, hungry for more of this tactile conversation. My body sings under his touch—a crescendo of sensation that makes me forget everything but the here and now.
We’re a tangle of limbs and urgency, a mess of need that can’t be contained by the confines of the front seat. With a mutual, unspoken agreement, we clumsily shift to the backseat—the promised land of space and sin.
Wasting no time, Soren rips open my pants and frees one leg. Then he kneels between my spread legs, my hands claw at the seat, seeking something to anchor me as he dips one hand lower, skimming along the inside of my thigh before finding the wet heat between my legs. I spread wider for him without shame.
“Christ, Gail, you’re so ready for me,” he groans, and I feel the vibrations of his voice against the sensitive skin of my neck.
His fingers work magic, slipping through slick folds to find that sweet spot that makes my vision blur. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he feels how my body clenches around him, eager and willing. He knows exactly what I need, increasing the pace until I’m bucking against him, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach.
My fingers tremble as they reach for him, drawn to the living canvas of his skin. The dim light catches on the ink that maps out Soren’s history—stories etched in black and shades of gray. My hands glide over the contours of muscle honed by years of guarding the net, each line of his tattoos a breadcrumb trail leading me into his world.
“Beautiful,” I whisper, and my fingertips trace the spider web at the base of his neck. It’s delicate work against the backdrop of brute strength, and my touch seems to unravel him, thread by thread.
While he fingers me, I undo his pants, using my feet to push them down far enough to free his erection. I smirk as the tattoo at his base comes into view. Have fun; don’t mind if I do.
Closing my hand around his throbbing cock, I stroke him eagerly, reveling in the groans falling from him.
His lips find mine again, and it’s a kiss that speaks of dark rooms and darker desires. I’m lost in the sensations he creates. He’s heat and strength and something wild that I can’t tame, and I don’t want to. Not now. Not when he’s making me feel like I’m the center of his universe, a star he’s orbiting with single-minded intensity.
“God, I want you,” he murmurs against my skin, each word punctuated by a nip or a lick that sends my senses spiraling. He curls his fingers deep inside me, the tips grazing that special spot that has me crying out his name.
“Soren!” Every nerve ending is buzzing from the electricity that Soren generates. My inhibitions, those pesky gatekeepers of my morality, crumble like ancient ruins in an earthquake. Another moan escapes me, and it’s not just desire—it’s relief. I’ve been holding back a reservoir of need, and it’s about to flood us both.
“Good whore,” he praises, and something about the term sends a jolt straight to my core. It’s not degrading; it’s empowering, because I’m not just any girl—I’m his, in this moment, utterly and completely.
Soren’s control is absolute, his movements deliberate and calculated. He knows exactly how to play my body, each stroke and caress building upon the last until I’m a symphony of sighs and cries. His dominance isn’t about subjugation; it’s about the freedom to give myself over to pleasure without fear or guilt. I’m adrift in sensation, anchored only by his hands, his mouth, his unyielding presence.
“Fuck, Soren,” I pant.
“Look at me,” he commands, and I obey instantly, caught by the intensity in his green eyes. They hold mine captive, and I’m spellbound, lost in the emerald depths as our bodies move together in a fevered dance. “Are you close, baby?” The endearment is a live wire straight to my core.
“God, yes,” I admit, feeling the tension coil tighter within me, a delicious pressure that begs for release.
I pout as he pulls his fingers out of me, and unwraps mine from around his shaft. Then he shifts on the seat, somehow managing to fold himself half onto the seat, half on the floor, in a perfect position that leaves the head of his hardness brushing against my swollen folds.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, his green eyes burning with intensity. “And you’re going to cream all over my cock.”
“Yes,” I moan.
My eyes roll back in my head as he enters me, slowly sheathing himself in my heat. When I reach for him, he takes my wrists, moving them underneath my back. “No touching,” he smirks. “Feel what I’m doing to you, baby. Feel my cock going in and out of your tight cunt.”
I moan.
“Do you hear that?”
