He watched me, his mysterious eyes attentive. He was relishing this, savoring my humiliation, my struggle, my reluctant surrender. He leaned back against the leather, his body a study in relaxed power, as he enjoyed my increasingly frantic, desperate movements.
“Look at me.”
I met his gaze, my eyes wide, a mixture of shame, desire, and a bit of horror surging through me. I could see it in his eyes, the triumph, the possession, the raw, primal satisfaction. He had broken me. He had remade me. And he was not done with me yet.
My desire was slowly building bit by bit despite my efforts to fight it. Already, I was close to orgasm, and he was so arrogantly proud of himself. I could see it in the smug, self-satisfied way he watched me.
He reached between us, his fingers finding my clit, still swollen and sensitive. He circled it slowly, teasing me, taunting me. The combination of sensations was a perfect storm of pleasure and pain that was pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
“Come for me, Kara,” he commanded. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
That was it. That was the final straw.
The orgasm that ripped through me was a violent thing that tore a muffled scream from my throat. I threw my head backwards, arched my back, and screamed through the gag.
He growled, and his pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. He was fucking me like he owned me, like he was trying to brand himself onto the very fabric of my soul.
And that’s when I saw something strange.
Through the darkened rear window of the Maybach, there was a flicker of odd movement. Not the blur of the city or another car, but a silver glimmer that caught the sunlight just so. I squinted, realizing it was a machine. A delivery drone, the kind that were as common as pigeons in this city of impossible futures.
But this one wasn’t carrying a parcel.
It was moving with a certain predatory trajectory, its red sensor light a steady, unwavering beacon. And it was closing in onus.
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the haze of pleasure still throbbing through my body. I tried to speak, to shout a warning, but the gag turned my words into a useless, muffled grunt. I bucked against him, trying to twist, to point, to do anything to break through the fog of his own impending climax, but nothing seemed to work.
His hand cracked across my already sore ass, a quick, stinging blow that made me jump. “Stop trying to distract me,” he grunted. He thought I was fighting him. He thought this was another game.
I shook my head, my eyes wide with a terror that was no longer just for myself. I slammed my hips down, a desperate, awkward movement that was meant to be a signal, not a surrender.
He mistook it for enthusiasm. His grip on my hips tightened, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming more determined. “That’s it, baby girl,” he growled. “Take it all.”
He came with a loud, guttural groan, and closed his eyes in a moment of pure, unadulterated male satisfaction. It was the only opening I had.
I threw my head forward with every ounce of strength I had left, my forehead smashing into his nose. The sound was appalling, a wet, cartilaginous crack that echoed in the quiet car. Bone on bone.
He roared, a sound of shocked agony, his hands flying up to his face. Blood instantly streamed between his fingers in a hot, shocking flood.
Holy shit.
Had I broken his nose?
“What the fuck!” he yelled, his voice a muffled, nasal shout toward the front of the car.
The driver must have been startled because the Maybach swerved like it was taking a corner too fast. There was a screech of tires, a sickening crunch of metal, and then the jarring impact of a collision.
We hit something hard: A dump truck, its bright yellow paint a garish smear before we crashed into its rear. The world spun in a chaos of shattered glass and twisted metal.
A sharp pain shot through my shoulder where I’d been thrown against the door. The impact was followed by a high-pitched whine that vibrated through the very frame of the car.
The drone.
It had been lining up for its final dive. The crash had thrown off its trajectory.
Somehow, it had missed us, instead slamming into the half-finished skyscraper on the corner we’d just careened around.
The explosion was not a simple bang; it was a concussive, ear-splitting roar. A fireball blossomed up into the sky, a violent, orange flower that consumed steel and glass. The shockwave hit us a second later, a physical blow that rocked the Maybach on its suspension.
