“Then let me worship you properly,” he says. “Because you’re extraordinary. The way you feel wrapped around me, your pussy constricting my cock. The sounds you make. Everything about you is fucking addictive.”
When I’m finally fully seated, both of us groan in unison.
Then I start moving, and it’s wild and hot and desperate. We’re perspiring despite the cold outside, the windows fogging up completely from our combined heat.
I’m trying not to bounce too obviously, trying not to make the whole car rock and draw attention, but his hands are on my hips and he’s helping me, making me take him deep with every movement.
“You feel sensational,” he groans against my neck. “Better than any fantasy. So tight and hot around me.”
His hands slide up under my shirt, pushing my bra up roughly to access my breasts directly, kneading them.
“Want to feel you come apart while you’re riding me.”
“Not yet,” I gasp.
“Greedy girl,” he says with a dark laugh. “I love it.” His touch slips between my legs, fingers finding my clit.
“Yes,” he hisses. “Just like that. Squeeze me exactly like that.”
As my arousal escalates, he suddenly leans forward and bites down hard on my neck where it meets my shoulder.
I groan at the sharp pain, at the desire coursing through me.
“Mine,” he growls against my skin. “Ours. Marked. No one else gets to have you.”
The bite sends me into an orgasm, and as I’m convulsing around him, I feel him swell inside me. His knot begins to expand, bulging, pushing against me, stretching me impossibly. I gasp for air, holding him.
His knot fully locks, and he comes with a roar that probably carries beyond the car, his whole body tensing beneath me as he pulses inside me.
We’re both panting and trembling, and he wraps his arms around me as if he’s never letting go.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers against my neck, gently kissing the bite mark.
I collapse fully back against his chest, satisfied, and we stay like that, listening to the movie we’ve completely ignored playing outside.
“I love this,” I murmur after a while, my breathing finally returning to normal. “Listening to the movie and knowing exactly what’s happening even though we can’t see it.”
He laughs softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. After over thirty minutes of him holding me, stroking my skin, whispering sweet words about how amazing I am and how he’s going to take care of me always, I finally sense his knot starting to go down.
I carefully slide off him with a whimper at the loss, and he immediately pulls out tissues from the center console to clean up.
“I can do it myself,” I say, reaching for them.
“Nope, I’m doing it,” he insists gently but firmly and proceeds to clean me up with a tenderness that leaves me shocked.
I love that about him. The contrast between the rough, demanding, praise-giving lover and the caring partner who wants to take care of me.
We get dressed in the cramped space—well, I pull my jeans back on and fix my bra and shirt while he zips up and buckles his belt—and the movie reaches toward the climax. The final sword fight scene.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say. “And I can toss these tissues away too.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
I climb out of the car, and the cold air is a sudden, violent shock compared to the fire we created inside. The temperature difference is so stark it actually steals my breath.
I rush to the nearest trash bin to throw away the tissues, looking around nervously, expecting people to stare and judge us for what we clearly just did. But no one is watching. Some cars look like they’re doing exactly what we just did, windows completely fogged, definitely rocking. Others are entirely focused on the movie, captivated by the final scenes.
