Just enough to make me whine, but not enough to lose rhythm.
He leans in again, the stubble on his jaw rasping sweetly at the nape of my spine.
“You know why I rebuilt this one, out of all the bikes in the world?”
I shake my head, dizzy.
“Because this engine is all raw power. Does what it wants, doesn’t pretend to be anything but a fucking beast. Remind you of anyone?”
His implication is so obvious I want to brain him with a yardstick, but more than that, I want him to keep going, to make good on every promise in his voice.
I bear down, pushing back on him, and Nash shudders.
“God, look at you,” he growls, fingers digging into the plush of my thigh. “You could wreck a man, couldn’t you?”
I want to say yes.
Instead, I just whimper, heat, shame, and pride tangled up inside me, each wave worse than the last.
The lights flare, turning Nash’s grip blue and barely-there pink, casting both of us as some kind of perverse Christmas miracle, proof that Santa really does reward the naughty.
I’m seconds from breaking. Or making him break.
Either way—plot is nothing if not unpredictable.
There’s a wind gust outside; the workshop rattles, and the decorations overhead sway on their lines, jingling like they’re in on the joke.
“I’m gonna fall,” I gasp, because if my arms give out now, I am taking this motorcycle down with me and Nash can explain the carnage to the insurance adjuster himself.
He just laughs, and slows his rhythm again—just enough that I nearly cry with the need for more.
“Don’t worry, Princess. You’re not going anywhere except exactly where I want you.”
His hand slides up, big and warm, palm flat between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the tank.
I moan, sniveling, humiliated, and evil-twinkling-lights Nash goes right back to destroying me in his perfectly methodical, absolutely devastating way.
The air is so charged with scent and sensation I’m stunned we haven’t blown out the workbench bulbs.
My hair sticks to my throat, my body buzzes with aftershocks, and the taste Nash leaves in my mouth is pureholiday infamy: burnt sugar, bourbon, salt, frost. When I angle my head, I catch a glimpse in the bike’s polished surface—wild hair, flushed cheeks, absolutely unhinged holiday glee.
“Bet you never put this on the brand deal manifest, did you?” Nash whispers, dark and close, and I nearly sob.
If I could, I’d turn around and smack him upside the head with a frosted sugar cookie.
Instead, I push back, desperate for more, my leg burning where he’s still holding me up—because if plotting requires physical endurance, I am both the main character and the tragic flaw.
He pounds in again, and my grip slips; for a split second, I’m weightless.
Nash catches me, pulls me back with one strong arm, and the humiliation is instant and total—but it also turns me molten, slicking down his thick cock, making every movement dirtier, louder, echoing off the tinsel-draped pipes running overhead.
The scent is addiction now: engine heat, Alpha musk, snowflaked citrus riding the air from outside, and my own sugar-rush lust, caught and curling around every single lightbulb in the garage.
We’re both locked in, Nash’s rhythm ratcheting tighter until I’m trembling in his grip, barely held together by a handful of muscle, a delicious antique, and the threat of total, plot-driven collapse.
He leans in, presses a kiss to the side of my neck—a brutal, claiming sort of kiss, all teeth and tongue and possessiveness—and the sensation explodes through me, white-hot, scattering every thought.
The colored Christmas lights flicker.
