He’s teasing.Oh, he’s definitely teasing.But underneath that, he’s watching me close, cataloguing every little twitch and whimper I make, like he’s tuning an engine and I’m the prototype.
I huff.
“I don’t need your compliments.” Lie.Lie of the century.“Not like I’m your Omega or anything, Nash.”
That tightens something in the air.
Scent, maybe—could be the charge of being called out, could be the way Nash responds on a dime, all intent and unsheathed attention.
“Oh really?” His hands rove up my sides, thumbs digging into the soft curve of belly, up to the underside of my breasts. “Not yours, hmm? ‘Cause every time I say something nice, you squeeze down on me like you’re the only one who gets to keep me.”
That is…shockingly unfair.
Damn him…
I try to scoff, but it comes out as a needy, strangled sound, full of heat and longing and the deep, insatiable rush I get whenever Nash gives me even an inch of honest praise.
Shut up, brain, do not analyze it.
He starts slow, rolling his hips, dragging his cock through me, up against the spot that melts my thoughts to frosting; every beat is matched with a new compliment, low and rough and sticky with intent.
“That’s it. Fuck, you’re gorgeous, you know that?” He bites down on my shoulder, hard enough to tingle, not hard enough to break. “Look at this body—all curves, all sugar, all mine. You’releaking down my cock, making a mess on my bike, and you’re still pretending you don’t want to hear it.”
Colored lights strobe across every exposed inch of us, making the scene extra grotesque and extra pretty, like Nash is re-skinning my entire world for maximum seasonal chaos.
I am not winning against this onslaught.
Snow is starting to fall in real earnest outside, the flakes catching and sticking to the window glass in neon-lit starbursts. It’s cold enough out there for ice to fog the windows, so the only real light inside is the mesh of LEDs draped across Nash’s garage like a crime scene staged by hyperactive elves.
Every time I open my eyes, the bulbs refract in the polished tank, sending wild streaks of color over my bare arms, my thighs, and the trail of handprints Nash is leaving behind.
I grind back on him, desperate now, just trying to keep it together.
Instead, all I do is turn Nash on more.
“Look at that. You like when I talk about you?” He rocks forward, cock buried to the hilt, and I nearly scream. “Why does every compliment make your pretty little cunt clamp down so hard?”
I want to punch him.
I also want to beg him to say it again.
I settle for whimpering, drool pooling against the cold tank as the pleasure ratchets up into full-blown need.
Inside, it’s all heat and light and friction. Nash is a monster, sure, but he’s also careful. I can feel him holding me up, bracing every reckless movement, making sure no matter how badly I shake, I never actually touch the ground.
Outside, the snow packs into drifts, silent and heavy.
We’re a hurricane inside a snow globe, and the world can watch but not touch.
He keeps going, lewd praise tumbling with every stroke.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” He teases, knowing from the way my pussy is contracting around his length. “You want to know what I see when I look at you? Fucking temptation. You make me want to do every bad thing. Gorgeous eyes, perfect mouth, that voice—mmm, that voice when you moan for me. Should I list more, babe, or you gonna admit you’re into it?”
I shake my head.
Deny, deny, deny.
“N-no. I just—you’re?—“
