Then his mouth is on me. Hot lips close over my nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing. I cry out, arching into him, threading my fingers into his hair as he sucks harder, then moves to the other with a groan so low and guttural it vibrates against my skin.
“Malachi,” I whisper again, already shaking.
He pulls back, breath hot across my chest. “Take these off.”
He nods at my shorts. I don’t argue. I wriggle them down, panties with them, wet, clingy, embarrassingly ruined. He helps, dragging them down my legs slowly, like he’s savoring the process. His touch is reverent, almost gentle, until he gets them off.
Then everything changes. He grabs my thighs and shoves them apart, stepping between them, gaze locked on the slick heat between my legs.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s mine.”
His thumb swipes through my folds, teasing, lazy. He doesn’t even touch my clit. Just circles, spreads, watches me squirm.
“Dripping for me already,” he murmurs. “This sweet pussy’s aching for me, isn’t it? But you don’t get me yet, hellcat.”
I whimper, rocking against his hand, desperate.
“You want it?” he asks, dark and calm. “I want to hear it.”
“Malachi—”
“Beg.”
I hesitate, biting my lip, every nerve raw with need. “Please,” I whisper. “Please, I need you.”
He growls low in his throat, a sound torn from something primal and hungry.
“Good girl,” he says, dropping to his knees. “Now hold still. Let me taste what’s mine.”
The garage is quiet, the clubhouse still closed for now; hours before it opens to anyone else. Just us. He’s taking advantage of it. Of the silence. Of the stolen privacy. And I let him.
His tongue sweeps up the length of my slit, slow and indulgent, like he’s tasting something rare and expensive. When he reaches my clit, he doesn’t just flick. It’s pressure. Suction. Tongue flattened, moving in steady circles that make me cry out, hips jerking against his mouth.
“Fuck—” I gasp, clutching the edge of the bench with one hand, the back of his head with the other. “Oh my God!”
He groans into me; the sound vibrating against my clit. His fingers grip my thighs, holding me wide, holding me still. I try to move. Try to close my legs. He growls.
“No,” he says into me, voice low, lips brushing my core. “You take this.”
Then he slides two fingers inside me. Deep, curling immediately, dragging along every sensitive inch as he sucks harder.
I shatter. Loud, shaking, back arching clean off the bench as I scream his name, body locking down around his hand, his mouth, his control.
But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going. Licking, thrusting, teasing until I’m begging. Until my thighs are trembling and my voice is hoarse, my whole body a live wire of oversensitivity and craving.
“Please,” I whisper, wrecked.
He rises slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, confident and unhurried, fully aware of what he’s done. Then he unzips his jeans. The sound alone makes my breath hitch.
“Eyes on me,” he says softly. “You started this, hellcat. Now I’m gonna finish it.”
He’s slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off me. I watch his hand disappear beneath the waistband. Then he pulls himself free, thick, hard, beautiful, and already dripping at the tip. My mouth waters, my thighs instinctively pressing tighter around him as he grips himself at the base and drags the head through my slick folds, slow and taunting.
“Fuck,” he growls, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “You’re soaked for me. You ache for me.”
I whimper when he slides just the tip inside, barely breaching me, just enough to make my body clench around nothing.
He doesn’t move. Just stays there, the head of his cock rocking in slow, shallow thrusts that make me shake, that keep me aching, keep me desperate. Every nerve screams for more. My hands clutch his biceps. My thighs quiver.
