Nothing but Nash’s voice in my ear and the pulse between my thighs.
He hoists my leg higher, heel balanced precariously on the peg, and the stretch burns. Not a bad burn. A choir-of-angels, this-was-why-Pilates-bootcamp-was-invented kind of burn.
Nash is smug as hell about it, too.
“You gonna break first, sugarplum, or am I?” Nash purrs, and the way his voice vibrates at my back nearly knocks my last shred of self-control off the table and onto the garage floor.
I want to get the last word in.
I always want the last word.
But the best I can do is a ragged whimper —humiliating— and a glare over my shoulder.
Those damn Christmas lights reflect in Nash’s eyes, and beneath the cocky exterior, I can feel it—how easily he could just let go, stop being careful, show me exactly what happens when you test all his limits.
Heat licks up my spine, and I arch, grinding back onto him, desperate and shameless and not even a little embarrassed about it. Nash rewards me with a palm smacked across my ass.
Oh, look, now I’m a matching set of bruises and pride.
“S’not even about the damn bike,” I manage, because my Omega personality is legally obligated to pick a fight even when ninety percent ruined. “You just want to hear me beg.”
Nash grins behind me, and the sound is filthy.
“You think I’m the one with an ego?” He slides in deeper, impossibly so, stretching me, filling me up so good everything inside me just turns to syrup. “Babe, you’re the one practically writing your own fanfiction right now.”
Touche.
I want to roast him. To push back. But I’m just… so full,so desperate, the friction threatening to tip me over any second. Nash’s rhythm is relentless—perfect—each stroke angled to rub me raw against the glossy tank while I squirm and tremble and try to not smear drool on someone’s collector’s item.
My nails scrape decorative snowflake stickers grafted to the side, and when I look down, there are sparkly bits of glitter catching in the garage lights, sticking to my wrists and the outer curve of my thigh.
Christmas, but make it absolute filth.
If Nash ever lets this go to auction, there’s going to be a “previously owned by a holiday influencer and entirely haunted” surcharge.
“Can you even focus, Princess, or is my cock the only thing you’re thinking about?” Nash bites, then leans in and licks a stripe along the shell of my ear. I swear I purr.
No shame.
I buck, and he releases a growl—low, sharp, and not for public consumption.
Every muscle in my body is buzzing, and every breath I take in tastes like us; like frosting, engine smoke, and Christmas morning after one too many spiked ciders.
Nash is everywhere, hands solid, grip unbreakable, and all I want—embarrassing, but true—is for him to keep going, to push until I can’t remember my own name, never mind my Vlogmas content calendar.
I squeeze around him, just to prove a point. He laughs.
“You trying to break me, sugar? In my own damn garage?”
He’s not deterred in the slightest.
He rocks back, then slams forward, intent and ruthless, and I have to bite my wrist so I don’t scream loud enough to traumatize the neighbor’s snowbound lawn deer.
The air shimmer-sticks around us, thick with want. The colored bulbs flash, sending wild shadows over our skin, and the cool, perfect finish of the Harley is now slick with sweat. There’s a streak of lipstick on the gas tank because apparently, I mouth the paint when I get desperate.
Kinky.
Suddenly Nash slows.
