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It doesn’t make sense. I’m on my knees in the back of a car, being used like athingfor someone else’s pleasure. There’s nothing powerful about that. Nothing feminist or empowering or any of those modern day buzzwords I’m supposed to care about.

And yet.

Every time he pushes deeper, every time my body yields to make room for him, I feel my burden lighten. Thrust by thrust, I let go.

He’s in control.

That means I don’t have to be.

When he finally pulls back, I gasp around him, my chest heaving. Drool connects my swollen lips to his cock in glistening strands.

He doesn’t let me breathe long. He shoves my face back down on him. I’m sweaty, confused, and delirious, fully lost in the moment.

He’s fucking my throat in earnest now.Usingme.

And the worst part—the best part, too—is that I don’t want him to stop.

I’m crying, choking, and struggling to breathe around the never-ending thickness of him. I’ve also never been more aroused in my entire life.

My free hand slides between my own legs. I need relief from the unbearable ache building there. My fingers brush slick, swollen flesh, and?—

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Lukas’s growl vibrates through his whole body and into mine. I feel it in my jaw, my throat, my chest.

“This is for me,” he warns. “Only me.”

I whimper around him but I obey, putting my hand back on his thigh. The denial makes me more desperate. Every nerve ending is screaming for something I’m not allowed to have.

I can feel him swelling against my tongue, getting harder.

He’s close.

Sure enough, a few more pumps later, his release comes with a grunt. His hips jerk up one final time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and then I feel the hot pulse of him releasing directly down my throat. He holds me there, his hand an iron vise in my hair, keeping me pinned in place while he empties himself inside me.

I swallow convulsively. Once. Twice. Three times.

It seems to go on forever, burst after burst of heat flooding my mouth and my throat, filling me up in ways I never imagined.

When he finally releases his grip, I pull back gasping and coughing. My lips are swollen and my face is a mess of tears and spit and smeared makeup. My jaw hurts. My throat is aching. My knees throb from the unforgiving floor mat.

I’ve never felt more debased.

I’ve never felt morewanted.

I kneel there between his legs, chest heaving, and stare up at him through wet lashes. I’m waiting for something, but I don’t even know what. A word? A touch? Some acknowledgment that what just happened meant something?

Lukas tucks himself away. He zips up and fixes his belt buckle into place. His hands smooth the wrinkled fabric of his trousers, erasing any evidence of what just happened.

Within seconds, his composure is back.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces his pocket square—the same one he used to wipe my slick off his fingers in Kir’s conference room, I realize with a jolt—and holds it out to me.

I take the cloth with shaking hands.

I do my best to clean my face, dabbing at the tears and spit and ruined mascara, but it’s hopeless. I can still taste him: salt and musk coating my tongue, clinging to the back of my throat. Evidence of him is everywhere, inside and out, written into my body in ways that soap and water won’t fix.

The car glides to a stop outside my building.