“I have some idea.” She rolled her hips deliberately against me, her breath catching at the hard length of me straining against her. “I can feel exactly what I do to you.”
I reached behind her and unclasped the bra, letting it fall, and then filled my hands with her again — bare this time, the warmth of her skin against my palms, her nipples stiff and sensitive as I learned the weight of her. I bent my head and took one into my mouth, tongue circling slow and deliberate, and her back arched sharply, her fingers threading into my hair to hold me there.
“Sebastian—”
I moved to the other, gave it the same attention, felt her hips roll against me with increasing urgency. She was chasing friction and I let her chase it, kept my mouth on her breasts while she ground down against me, her breath coming faster, her thighs tightening around mine.
Her hands worked my shirt open with fingers that weren’t entirely steady — I noticed, filed it away, found it devastating in ways I had no language for yet. When her palms pressed flat against my bare chest I groaned at the contact, the heat of her hands searing against my skin. She shoved the shirt from my shoulders and ran her palms down my stomach, feeling the muscles tense beneath her touch, and something about the focused way she explored me — like she was cataloging, like she was thorough even now — made my cock pulse hard against the fabric of my trousers.
She felt it. Looked up at me with dark eyes and a small, knowing curve to her mouth.
“Em—”
“Shh.” She reached between us and worked my belt open, her knuckles grazing the length of me through the fabric and making my jaw tighten with the effort of holding still. When she finally freed me and wrapped her hand around me fully I made a sound that had nothing composed about it — low and rough and stripped of every layer of control I’d spent the evening maintaining.
She was warm and firm and she stroked me once, slowly, thumb dragging over the head, and my hips pushed forward involuntarily, seeking more.
“Stop overthinking,” she said.
“I never overthink.” I gripped her hips, pulling her flush against me, feeling the warmth of her even through the thin barrier of her underwear. “I calculate. There’s a difference.”
“Then calculate this.” She shifted her underwear aside with her own hand — the deliberateness of it, the fact that she was doing it herself, choosing this with full intention — and the first brush of her bare heat against my cock pulled a groan from deep in my chest.
She was wet. Slick and warm and ready, and when I pressed against her entrance she shuddered, her forehead dropping to mine.
“I want this,” she breathed, voice low and stripped of everything except truth. “I want you. Whatever comes after — I want this.”
I held her hips and let her control it — let her set the angle, the pace, the depth — and watched her face as she sank down onto me in one long, devastating slide. The stretch of her taking me pulled a fractured sound from her throat, and I felt every inch of it — the tight, perfect heat of her surrounding me, the way her body adjusted and accepted and gripped.
“Okay?” I managed.
“More than.” Her voice was wrecked, her hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise. “God, you feel — Sebastian?—”
“I know.” I pressed my lips to her collarbone, her throat, the curve of her shoulder, anchoring us both. “I know.”
Then she began to move.
Slow at first — deep, rolling movements that had my hands gripping the leather seat and every muscle in my body fighting the urge to take over. She set the pace with the same focused control she brought to everything, hips rolling in a rhythm that was deliberate and unhurried, learning the angle, learning what made my breathing stutter, returning to it with the infuriating precision of a woman who paid very close attention to evidence.
I could feel her — the slick heat of her sliding over me, the tight clench each time she seated herself fully, the small hitch in her breath when the angle hit right. Her breasts pressed against my chest as she moved, her nipples dragging against my skin, and the sensation layered over everything else until my hands found her hips with a grip that was less patient than I intended.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I said against her throat.
“Doing what?”
“Learning exactly what undoes me.”
Her laugh was breathless and triumphant and the most genuine sound I’d heard all evening. “Maybe I’m just thorough.”
“You’re catastrophic,” I said, and thrust up into her, hard, swallowing her gasp with my mouth.
The pace broke after that — less controlled, more urgent, both of us chasing something rather than leading toward it. Her hips snapped down to meet mine, the wet sound of our bodies together filling the car, her nails scoring lines down my back that I knew I’d find again in the shower tomorrow and didn’t remotely mind.
I slid my hand between us and found her clit — felt her whole body jolt at the contact, felt her clench tight around me. I circled slowly, deliberately, matching the rhythm of my hips, and watched her come apart piece by piece. Her head fell back, the long column of her throat exposed, her breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath.
“That’s it,” I murmured, holding the pressure steady even as her rhythm faltered. “I’ve got you.”
“I don’t need—” The protest dissolved into a sharp, fractured moan as I changed the angle and increased the pace simultaneously. “Don’t stop — Sebastian, don’t?—”
