Page 97 of Pucking Daddy

This woman.

Her tongue meets mine with a hunger that matches my own, and the kiss turns messy, desperate, all teeth and heat.

A sudden bump in the road jolts us closer, her body pressing into mine, our teeth knocking together. But it only deepens the moment.

When I pull back, her eyes are half-lidded. Her chest rises and falls in quick succession.

I ease her back against the leather seat, guiding her shoulders down until she's reclining. The material sighs beneath her weight.

Her dress rides up as she settles, revealing the lacy tops of her stockings, the pale strip of skin above them.

"Fuck," I breathe. "You're killing me."

My fingers find the hem of her dress and push it higher. She lifts her hips to help me, and the fabric bunches around her waist.

Her panties are black and thin, a delicate strip of lace that barely covers her. I can already see the darker spot of wetness staining the fabric.

"Look at you." I drag a finger along that damp patch, and her hips jerk. "So fucking wet already. Did getting in this car do that? Knowing what I wanted to do to you?"

"Jaxon, please—" Her voice cracks.

I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and pull. She lifts again, and I slide the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, past her ankles.

I stuff the lace into my jacket pocket without breaking eye contact.

"Spread your legs for me."

She hesitates for half a heartbeat. Then her knees fall open, and I see her fully—glistening, swollen, desperate.

The scent of her arousal fills the confined space, mixing with the leather and the lingering traces of cologne.

I settle between her thighs, my shoulders pushing them wider.

My hands grip the soft flesh above her stockings, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg meets hip.

I can feel her trembling.

"Jax—"

"Shh." I blow a stream of cool air across her heated flesh, and she whimpers. "Let me."

The first taste of her floods my tongue—salt and musk and something uniquely Zara.

I drag my tongue in a broad stroke from her entrance to her clit, and her whole body arches off the seat. Her hands fly to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

"Oh god—"

I seal my lips around her clit and suck. Gently at first, then with increasing pressure.

Her thighs clamp around my head, and I feel the muscles in them jump and flex.

The car's motion adds an extra rhythm—a slow sway that shifts her beneath me, changes the angle, keeps her guessing.

She's vocal and I love that about her.

Every flick of my tongue draws a sound from her throat—gasps, moans, broken syllables that might be my name or might be pleas for more.

The windows fog around us, sealing us into this private world of heat and wet and want.