Or maybe that’s just my vision.
All I know is the bite of cold Harley against my stomach, the burn of Nash’s cock driving into me, and the cacophony of scentand heat and the promise of complete annihilation, wrapped up in a bow, ready to be ruined.
“Fuck, look at you,” Nash says again, softer now, but somehow more dangerous. “You gonna last, or am I gonna have to finish this bike ride myself?”
Everything in me tenses, desperate to prove him wrong. But every movement, every taunt, only pushes me closer to the edge.
“Just—fucking get on with it,” I hiss, sure I’ve never wanted anything more.
He cackles.
“Bossy. That’s what I like.”
And then he sets his jaw, digs in, and the next few minutes are a blur—heat, color, music, the rush of cold from the window, the tang of ozone and snow and sex so thick it’s almost a weather event. He rails into me, unyielding, every thrust calculated to make me see stars, holiday lights spinning faster than the bearings in the Panhead.
I clutch at the tank and Nash clutches at me, bruising and relentless, leaving marks and words and perfect, perfect memories.
But there’s always time for Nash to ruin me just a little bit more.
My thighs ache.
Actually, every muscle in me—quads, hips, somewhere in the neighborhood of my immortal soul—is twitching on the verge of going limp, but Nash is giving me approximately zero opportunities to recover. His grip says, “don’t you dare move,” but his rhythm?
His rhythm says, “I’m going to make you scream so loud my neighbors file a noise complaint.”
Which, at this rate, is definitely happening.
He’s relentless now.
Full Alpha, dark and dangerous and laced with the giddy glee of a man who knows exactly what kind of mess he’s making.
And I am cursing him out for every second of it.
“Nash—fuck, Nash—rude, you absolute madman—” The words start as sentences and dissolve into vowels, desperate and whipped raw with need.
The wet slide between my thighs is obscene; his cock is even thicker now, and the angle? Ruinous. He’s slicked up and so am I, every inch of him driving in, stretching, grinding, until the edge blurs and all I am is a pulsing, trembling, sticky mess.
My moans? Not cute. Not curated for content.
They’re echoing off the tool racks and gas tanks and the hand-painted “Happy Howlidays” sign I stenciled over his workbench last week, bouncing around the garage like Nash’s own personal pornographic Christmas carol.
I nearly slip off the bike again, and this time Nash just pulls me back, grip uncompromising, taking me by the hips so he can piston into me even deeper, even harder.
“Careful, Sugarplum. Don’t want to wind up under Santa’s naughty list with property damage as your crime.”
“Damn—shit—you are so damn lucky I’m not in the mood to argue with you,” I gasp, muffling my shriek against the chill gloss of the gas tank. I’m starting to sweat, skin damp wherever he touches, but my cheek is freezing where the tank makes contact.
That just makes the burn hotter.
He grins behind me, I can feel it, his voice all smug Alpha.
“You threatening me, Rev?”
“I would, but you keep… you keep doing that with your hips—” I yank in a breath as he hits exactly the right spot, and my entire body tries to turn inside out.
Nash is absolutely delighted with himself.
“Tell me, Princess,” he says, punctuating each word with a roll of his hips. “You jealous of my bike? Should I be complimenting you instead? Is that what you want?”
