A sharp breath tears from my throat in a broken sound. It’s not even a gasp. It’s a desperate, involuntarywhimper, like he’s stolen the air from my lungs with nothing but a touch.
“Pathetic,” he says. “Dripping for me with your wrists chained like a fucking prisoner. What does that say about you?”
“That I’d rather be used by the father than the son,” I snap before I can stop myself.
His breath stutters, like I’ve punched the air out of him.
“Turn around,” he commands. “Face the car.”
I hesitate.
His hand grabs the back of my neck. “Now.”
I turn, chest heaving, and he yanks my soaked panties down to my knees.
I brace my hands on the car as his hand slides between my legs again. Two fingers part my folds, and I can feel how wet I am. Embarrassingly wet. He strokes once, dragging his fingers along my center, and I flinch, legs trembling.
“Goddamn,” he mutters behind me. “You’re soaking.”
He slides one finger inside me. I whimper, biting my lip hard.
Then two. He curls them, and my knees nearly give way. My hips push back into his hand without my permission. I hate that he feels so good. I hate that I can’t stop.
He moves with precision. Every press, every pump is meant to break me apart. I press tighter against the car as his fingers fuck me.
“You needed this,” he growls. “Didn’t you?”
I nod helplessly, teeth gritted.
His fingers move faster. He presses his palm against my clit, grinding small, merciless circles while he thrusts into me from behind with just his hand. My moans echo into the night, swallowed by the trees and moonlight.
“Say it,” he snaps. “Say you wanted this.”
“I wanted it,” I gasp. “I fucking wanted it.”
He pulls his fingers out suddenly. I whimper at the loss.
Then I feel him. The blunt, heavy press of his cock at my entrance. We both gasp—his sharp and broken, mine high and shattered.
He sinks in slowly at first, and my walls stretch around him, aching and desperate. I feel so full, so tight, like I’ll snap in half if he pushes another inch, but I want him to.
His hands slide around my waist, then upward, grabbing my breasts through the fabric of my dress.
“Fuck,” he growls under his breath, and he yanks the top of the dress down until my breasts spill out. His palms are on me instantly, rough and greedy, squeezing my breasts like he’s claiming them for himself.
I cry out, the noise raw and wild. My body jolts with every movement, the combination of being filled from behind and touched so fiercely making my legs shake.
He cups both breasts from behind, pressing them together, thumbs brushing my nipples in maddening circles. Every touch sends another jolt of heat straight to my core, where his cock pulses inside me.
“You feel this?” he hisses against the back of my neck, his breath ragged. “This is what happens when you run. You come back tighter. Hotter. Needing it more.”
I can’t even speak. I just moan louder, my nails scraping at the car, the cuffs rattling as my body rocks forward with every thrust. He pushes me forward and then pulls me back against him, over and over, like he owns the tempo of my body.
“Louder,” he growls, thrusting deeper. “Let them hear you.”
“I can’t—” I choke out, but it’s not a protest. My voice is broken. My thighs are soaked. My skin is burning.
His lips are at my ear again. “You can take it. You’re made to take it.”
