Prologue: Sleigh Me In The Garage
~REVERIE~
Being fucked against a motorcycle wasn’t on my Christmas list, but here I am…in the season of bliss.
Nash’s garage workshop smells like a mechanic’s fever dream crossed with a Christmas tree farm and the world’s most exclusive bakery-slash-cocktail bar. It’s four parts engine oil and solvent, one part peppermint mocha, and one seriously obscene overdose of vanilla-laced anticipation, which is extremely on brand for me.
Snow is tumbling down outside the fogged windows, and up on the bench there’s a ceramic nutcracker army ready for war against an army of battery-operated reindeer, but none of that has anything to do with why I’m moaning right now.
Now why am I letting every wild creature and townsfolk hear me moan like my life depends on it?
Well, it's because Nash's hands are wrapped around my hips-hard enough to make new indentations, as he's fucking me so hard that I have to clutch at his precious motorcycle just to keepfrom hoisting myself straight into orbit like one of Santa’s more deranged reindeer.
If anyone asks, there was never a plan for this level of chaos on a Tuesday in December.
There’s a very dignified—absolutely cataclysmic—holiday content calendar sitting in my backpack next to a velvet Santa hat and three tubes of lip gloss. There was going to be cocoa, sparkling twinkle lights, and maybe Nash in a tacky sweater if I bribed him enough.
Instead, I’m bent double over a cherry-red Harley tank, gasping, “Oh my god” just as Nash snaps his hips forward again and my knees nearly go out for good.
It’s the way he moves.
Controlled, unstoppable.
Like everything in the world is just an obstacle he’s already figured out how to knock over, and I’m the only thing he handles with care.
Except right now he’s not handling anything gently.
This is full-throttle, no-holds-barred, and technically, I don’t even get to pretend to be scandalized because I started it.I did. I one hundred percent started it.It is also one hundred percent Nash’s fault, for existing in my general vicinity in the first place.
“Careful, princess.”
His voice does that thing. The one that sounds bored on the surface, but underneath has so much smug satisfaction,not even a little subtle,it could be selling tickets to the afterparty.
“You even think about knocking this bike over, and you’re paying the insurance claim.”
My cheeks flame. I’m not talking ‘oh, I’m blushing demurely.’
I’m talking my entire face and half my chest go up in full-body flush, the kind that can be seen by passing satellites.
Possibly because my slick is already dripping down the thick length of Nash’s cock, the pressure and friction andoverstimulation toeing the line between “I can take this” and “I am absolutely about to evaporate.”
I try to remember how to speak.
Not easy when your lungs are somewhere around your ankles and your brain is three steps ahead, writing captions for the highlight reel.
“You sound very confident for someone risking historic property damage in the name of holiday plot,” I gasp, fingers splayed against cold metal, every shudder up my spine ricocheting through the garage like another bell ringing.
There’s no way I’m going to live this down—no fucking way—but the plot is queen, and if this is for “content”, I’m going for broke.
Nash’s laughter is mostly teeth.
“Don’t insult the Panhead,Reverie.” He punches the last word, and I swear I feel it everywhere. “You know what I went through to get her? Two years hunting. Three cash offers rejected. Antique 1948 Harley-Davidson, cherry-factory paint, not a single aftermarket piston anywhere on this fucking engine. Do you know what a pristine Panhead even goes for at auction?”
I do not.
My entire universe is contracted to the way his cock drags inside me, the head stroking over that spot so perfectly it should be illegal, and the way my whole lower body tingles with pleasure and frost.
I’m pretty sure if you cut me open right now, I’d be half sugar, half liquid lust, and probably some metallic paint chips from the Harley.
