Road Queen #23

He took her against the car like she'd told him to. Earlier. In a shower stall, water running, steam so thick it masked every sin. Clothes were still mostly on—skirt shoved up, buttons torn open. Her back slammed against cold metal. One hand wrapped around her throat just enough to remind her who was running the scene. The other dragged her hips forward until there was nothing but heat and the sharp press of denim against skin. She gasped when he filled her. Not gentle. Not slow. The kind of push that pins you open and keeps you there. Her nails dug half-moons into his forearms. A line of sweat traced from her collarbone down between her breasts, disappearing beneath torn lace. He moved like he wanted to break her into pretty pieces, hips grinding in, out, again—gritty rhythm, hungry and relentless. Her teeth sank into his lip, the copper bite of blood blooming between them. They didn't care about the lot, or who could see. Streetlamps threw gold across pavement and skin while the wind slapped cool air against raw thighs. When he whispered, voice ragged, “Don't come yet,” she clenched around him like punishment, like proof.