“Shh,” he hissed, circling the sensitive flesh with expert precision. His fingers rough, calloused, but they knew exactly how to drag me toward the edge. “Keep moving. Don’t stop.”
I rode him harder. Faster. My ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sound of our fucking filling the car as the city blurred past the window—a smear of neon and headlights. None of it mattered. Only this. Only him.
His fingers tighten on my waist, nails digging into my skin hard enough to bruise, but I didn’t care. I wanted his marks on me. I wanted to wake tomorrow with his fingerprints inked into my flesh like a brand.
“You’re close,” he growled, not a question.
I nodded, my breath hitching, my rhythm faltering. The pressure was building, coiling in my gut like a spring wound too tight. His fingers on my clit sped up, relentless, merciless until I was thrown over the edge.
The orgasm rips through me like a wave of fire—my back arching, my pussy clenching around his cock, the sound of my stifled scream swallowed by his palm. I pulsed around him, milking him, and he groaned in response, his hips thrusting up into me, burying himself as deep as he could go.
“Fuck, Zara,” he breaths, the name a confession, a curse, a prayer.
He moaned, his hips thrusting up into me, chasing his own release. I felt every spurt, every pulse of his release filling me, marking me from the inside out. His hand left my mouth, and he wrapped both arms around me, holding me as I sagged against his chest, boneless, trembling, my breath ragged.
The car was silent except for our labored breathing and the distant hum of the engine. Either the driver hadn’t noticed, or he was paid well enough to pretend.
Pressing a kiss to my shoulder, he said, “You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “Ruined. Claimed. Mine.”
The word hit me like a blow to the chest.Mine.
I should have hated it. I should have pulled away, spat something venomous, rebuilt the walls he’d shattered. But the truth was—I didn’t want to.
I wanted to behis.
The realization burned through me, sharp and terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I pressed my thighs together, clenching around him, and felt a fresh pulse of wetness slide down.
He groaned, a low sound of approval. “Again?”
“I…” I couldn’t form words. My body was still humming, still hungry.
His hand slid down from my jaw, over my throat, between my breasts, coming to rest on my lower belly.
“Lorenzo.” His name was a plea, a confession, a surrender.
“I know.” He kissed my temple, soft and unexpected. “I know.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds being our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the engine. Outside, the city glittered, oblivious to the dark intimacy building between us.
I could feel his heartbeat against my back—steady, strong,certain. My own pulse was a frantic bird trapped in my ribs.
Slowly, reluctantly, he began to soften inside me until I felt him slip free, causing his cum to spill out of me — a warm trickle ran down my inner thigh, soaking into the leather seat.
He reached between my legs, his fingers catching the fluid before bringing it to his lips.
I watched, mesmerized, as he tasted our release on his fingertips.
“Sweet,” he said, his eyes meeting mine in the window. “You make me taste so sweet.”
My breath caught as he leaned forward, his lips brushing my ear. “I want to taste you again, next time on my tongue.”
The words sent a fresh wave of heat through me, pooling low in my belly. But before I could respond, the car slowed and the driver’s voice crackled through a speaker I hadn’t noticed.
“Mr. Falcone, we’ve arrived.”
And just like that, the spell shattered.
I scrambled off his lap, my thighs sticky, my sundress twisted, my mind a hurricane. And Lorenzo just watched me with hooded eyes, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
