The moans into his mouth he swallows like he’s been dying for the sound.
“Saying I missed having you like this doesn’t cover it.” He nips at my lip, and I moan, fingers already making work of his belt and zipper.
“I’ve missed you, too. You have no idea.”
“Oh, I think I do. Sweet Jesus,” he breathes as I wrap my hand around his cock, and he works his pants down past his knees. Heat explodes everywhere when our thighs touch, skin on hot skin.
His fingers fist in the hem of my dress and yank it upward in one brutal motion. Fabric scrapes over my skin as he rips it off me, tossing it somewhere into the front seat without looking. Cool air kisses my bare breasts and I shiver hard, nipples tightening instantly under the weight of his stare.
His palms slide up my ribs, cupping my breasts roughly, thumbs dragging over my nipples until I arch with a broken cry.
“You’ve barely touched me and you’re already driving me mad.”
“Good. Because you’re fucking killing me like this.”
His mouth covers my nipple—hot, wet—sucking one tight peak between his lips while his hand squeezes the other. The contrast of his teeth grazing sensitive skin and the slow, filthy pull of his tongue makes my hips jerk.
I’m already soaked. Aching. Grinding shamelessly against him, feeling the velvet length of him slide through my slit.
He groans against my breast, the sound raw and wrecked, and the vibration shoots straight between my legs.
Fingers hook into the thin waistband of my panties, and he reaches for something behind him. Metal whispers against leather.
The karambit.
My breath catches.
The blade is cool as he presses the flat of it against my inner thigh, right where the lace meets skin. He doesn’t speak. Simply drags the wicked curve upward—slow, the sharp edge kissing the delicate fabric without cutting me.
My heart hammers so hard I feel it in my throat. One wrong twitch and?—
The lace parts with a soft, obscenesnick.
Sliced straight through the gusset between my legs, the blade whispers dangerously close to my swollen, aching pussy.
Cool air rushes over my bare, dripping folds the instant the fabric gives way. I moan, hips jerking at the sudden exposure, at the terrifying thrill of cold steel so close to my most vulnerable place.
Reth drops the karambit, two fingers snaking into the torn front of my panties, and pulls upward.
The ruined lace drags over my clit—rough, wet, teasing—making my thighs tremble violently. He keeps pulling, sliding the torn fabric up my stomach, over my breasts, the frayed edges catching on my sensitive nipples. Higher. Over my shoulders. Over my head, stripping it off me the same way he did my dress.
The sensation is maddening—lace scraping skin that’s already burning for him.
When he reaches my wrists, still stretched above my head, he loops the torn panties around them.
“I wanna look at you.” He pulls my tied wrists behind my neck, threading the delicate fabric through the metal posts of the front headrest, securing it tight. “Really fucking look at you.”
I’m bound.
Wrists secured. Back arched. Breasts thrust forward. Pussy completely open and dripping.
The torn lace bites into my skin with every shallow breath, a constant, intimate restraint that makes me feel small and helpless and so fucking wanted I could cry.
Then the fire shifts.
It doesn’t cool. It doesn’t lessen. It simply changes shape—becoming something slower, deeper, more terrifying in its intensity. Like he’s no longer just trying to consume me. He’s trying torememberme. To reclaim every single part of me.
My skin tingles when he lets his hand glide down my side, dragging his open mouth down with it, breathing me in, then settles back.
