1. Gianna #2
He pulled me into his lap. My knees straddled his thighs, dress riding up, the hard line of him already pressing against the thin lace of my underwear.
The city lights slid across his face as we moved through the darkness.
His fingers found the thin strap of my dress and slid it down my shoulder. Then the other one slowly.
The silk pooled at my waist. Cool air hit my breasts, then his mouth did.
He sucked my nipple into his mouth with a wet, deliberate pull that made my hips jerk.
His tongue circled, then his teeth, just enough to make me gasp.
His other hand palmed the other breast, thumb dragging over the peak until it was tight and aching.
He switched sides like he was cataloguing every sound I made, storing them.
“Orion-”
“Shh.” His mouth was still on my skin. “I’ve been watching you all night. Sitting there in this dress, looking at me like you wanted to fight. You have no idea what that does to me.”
His hand slipped between us, under the silk, and found me already wet.
Two fingers dragged along the soaked lace, pressing, rubbing, and my head fell back.
He pushed the fabric aside. His fingertips slid through my slickness, circling my clit with that maddening patience that was either a gift or a weapon.
“Fuck,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So wet already. You were sitting at that table like this? Angry at me and dripping for me at the same time?”
I should have been insulted. I should have climbed off his lap and demanded the conversation I’d asked for.
Instead my hips rolled against his hand.
He pushed two fingers inside me without warning.
Thick, curling, stretching me open while his thumb kept working that swollen spot.
I clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of my throat.
He watched my face the entire time, dark eyes half-lidded, like my pleasure was a problem he intended to solve completely.
“That’s it.” His voice was wrecked now. “Ride my fingers, baby. Show me.”
I rocked on his hand, silk rucked around my hips, breasts bared, chasing the heat he was building with ruthless precision. He knew exactly where to touch me. His fingers found that spot inside me and pressed, again and again, until my thighs started to shake.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmured against my skin.
What I needed was for him to understand me without being told. What I needed was for him to fight for me, choose me, see me without me having to beg for it.
But his fingers were deep inside me, and his mouth was on my throat, and my thoughts were dissolving into heat and want and the filthy wet sound of him working me open in the back of a truck.
I said, “You. I need you.”
Because it was true. Even when I was furious. I needed him like I needed air.
He withdrew his fingers. I made a helpless noise at the loss. He brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, watching me, and something in my stomach went molten.
“Hold onto me.”
He undid his belt with one hand. The sound of his zipper was obscene in the quiet. He shoved his jeans down just enough, fisted himself, and dragged the thick head of his cock through my wetness, coating himself, teasing my clit until I was shaking.
Then he pulled me down onto him in one slow, devastating slide.
I gasped. He filled me so completely it stole the air from my lungs.
Stretch. The particular ache of being taken by a man who knew exactly how I fit around him.
My forehead dropped to his. His hands gripped my ass, spreading me, holding me down until I was seated fully, until there was nowhere left to go.
“Fuck, Gianna.” His breath was ragged against my lips. “You take me so well. Every time. Like this pretty little cunt was made for me.”
He started to move me. Deep. Using my hips like I was something he owned, lifting me and pulling me back down onto his cock until I felt him in my stomach.
The leather creaked, my nails dug into his shoulders.
Every downward stroke dragged my clit against him.
Every upward one left me empty and desperate.
He positioned me exactly where he wanted me, my back against the leather seat now, his body covering mine.
One of my legs hooked over his hip. He drove into me harder, the new angle hitting that place inside me that made my vision blur.
The countryside kept sliding past outside, highways turning to private roads, regular Atlanta giving way to the kind of wealth that didn’t advertise itself, but inside this truck, there was only us.
Only his cock splitting me open, slow and then not slow at all.
Only my gasp when he pushed in to the hilt and stayed there, grinding, watching my face with those dark eyes that saw everything and gave nothing away.
“Look at me while I fuck you.”
I looked. I couldn’t not. His shirt was still half-unbuttoned, collar open, that devastating cowboy-undone look, and he was buried inside me to the root, jaw tight with the effort of not coming yet. He reached between us and rubbed my clit in tight circles.
“Orion-”
“I’ve got you.” His forehead pressed against mine, his breath warm on my lips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go.”
The orgasm hit like a wave breaking. I came apart with his hand steady on the back of my neck, his eyes locked on mine, clenching around his cock so hard I heard him groan.
For one perfect, devastating moment, I felt completely seen.
Completely loved in the only language he seemed to speak fluently.
My body shook. Pleasure ripped through me in pulses, and I forgot Demi’s voice, forgot the empty doorway, forgot every word I’d wanted him to say. There was only this. Only him filling me, holding me through it, fucking me through it, until I was sobbing his name into his mouth.
He followed with a low, broken sound, thrusting deep and staying there, spilling inside me in hot pulses. His hand tightened on my neck. His other arm locked around my waist like he might disappear if he let go.
For a few seconds, there was nothing but breathing. The truck. The heat of him still inside me. The wet, intimate mess of us.
Then his phone buzzed.
And he reached for it.
Before he’d even caught his breath.
I lay there beneath him, dress still hiked up, his come leaking out of me onto the leather, heart still racing, and watched him check his notification with the same hand that had just been between my thighs.
“Who was that?” I asked.
He didn’t look up. His thumb was already scrolling. “Work.”
At almost 11 o’clock at night. After the announcement of his first child. On the drive to his private jet.
Always, always work.
I fixed my dress with shaking hands and turned toward the window, watching the airstrip come into view. The sleek private jet waiting on the tarmac, the staff ready to cater to our every need, the life of obscene privilege that still felt like a costume I was wearing.