10. Mira
ten
Mira
M y heels click against concrete as I stride toward my car. Three levels down in this parking garage, but I'll make it. He's late. Six minutes late. I don't wait for anyone.
His footsteps echo behind me—running shoes slapping against damp concrete. "Mira, wait—"
I don't stop. "Six minutes late. I don't wait."
"Please."
That word. Always that fucking word. I stop walking but don't turn around. The garage air tastes like exhaust and old oil.
He catches up, breathing hard. Not from the run—from need. When I finally turn to face him, his blue-green eyes burn with barely controlled desperation. The bulge in his pants strains against the denim like it's trying to escape. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling.
"The team wants you at the safehouse. For operational security."
"I don't need protection."
"It's not protection. It's intel coordination."
"We'll see." I study his face. Sweat beads at his temple despite the cool garage air. A ventilation fan hums somewhere above us, mixing with the distant sound of traffic. "You can't just walk away from what happened in there."
"I can do whatever I want."
His voice cracks. "You're mine now."
The words come out broken, desperate. Like he's drowning and these words are his only lifeline. His keys spin around his finger—four rotations, catch, repeat. Faster than normal. The metal clicks against his rings.
"What?"
"You said I was yours, so that means—" He's rambling now, that flustered energy spilling everywhere, words tumbling over each other. "That means you're mine too. Right? That's how it works? Equal exchange?"
The desperation in his twisted logic makes heat pool between my legs. My nipples tighten against the silk of my dress.
"That's not how anything works."
"It is now."
I turn to leave. Really leave this time. My heels click against concrete as I head for my car, each step echoing in the empty space.
"Mira, please—"
His hand closes around my wrist. Hot. Firm. Wrong.
The touch triggers something visceral. My vision goes red. My pulse pounds in my ears.
Don't touch me. Never touch me without permission.
My body moves before my brain catches up. I spin, using his grip against him, and drive my elbow toward his solar plexus. He releases my wrist to block, but I'm already moving—heel of my palm toward his nose.
He jerks his head back, avoiding the strike that would have smashed cartilage. I follow with a knee toward his groin. He twists, taking it on his thigh instead. The impact jars up my leg.
"Mira—"
I rake my nails down the side of his neck. Skin parts under my fingers. Four parallel lines of blood bloom against his skin. The copper smell hits immediately. He hisses but doesn't retaliate. Just backs up, hands raised.
"I'm not going to fight you."
"Coward."
I lunge at him. He sidesteps, catches my wrist—not rough, just firm. His palm is callused from years of gripping steering wheels. I try to break free using a joint lock, but he knows the counter. Of course he does.
"Stop."
"Make me."
I swing with my free hand. He catches that wrist too, spins me, pulls my back against his chest with my arms crossed in front of me. A perfect restraint hold. I can feel his cock pressing against my ass through our clothes. His breath is hot against my ear, chest heaving against my back.
I throw my head back, trying to break his nose. He shifts just enough to avoid it. I stomp on his instep. He grunts but doesn't let go. His arms are like steel bands around me.
"I won't hurt you."
"Then you'll lose."
I drop my weight suddenly, trying to break his grip. He follows me down, and we end up on the concrete—him on his back with a grunt of pain, me on top of him but facing away, still restrained.
I twist violently. My dress rides up to my hips. He adjusts his hold but in the struggle, I manage to flip around. Now I'm straddling him, my dress hiked up, his hands still gripping my wrists. His fingers overlap on my smaller bones, pulse racing under his grip.
We're both breathing hard, the sound harsh in the empty garage. Blood runs from the scratches on his neck, trickling down to stain his collar. My hair is wild, falling in my face, sticking to my neck with sweat. And his cock—
His cock is pressed directly against me. Only his jeans between us because I'm not wearing anything under this dress. The heat of him burns through the denim. The rough fabric against my bare pussy makes me gasp.
I try to pull my wrists free. The movement grinds me against him. The seam of his jeans drags across my clit.
We both freeze.
"Don't move," I gasp. My voice sounds strangled, nothing like my usual control.
But he's already shaking beneath me. His pupils are blown black, only a thin ring of blue-green remaining. "Can't—I can't—"
I try to lift myself off him but that makes it worse. The friction as I move—his cock is right there, pressing against my clit through his jeans. I'm already soaked from the confrontation, from his desperation, from the fight. I can feel myself getting wetter.
"Fuck—"
Another involuntary shift as I try to escape. Another wave of friction. My hips buck without permission. The rough denim catches perfectly.
"Mira, please, I can't—if you keep moving—" His voice breaks. His chest heaves under me, heart hammering so hard I can feel it.
"Then let me go!"
"You'll run."
"Yes!"
He releases one wrist to grab my hip, trying to still me. His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise. But the adjustment makes me slide against him again. The seam of his jeans catches my clit perfectly.
"Oh fuck—"
"Don't—Jesus, don't make that sound—"
I'm trying to climb off him but every movement makes it worse. He's so hard beneath me, and the angle, the pressure—my body doesn't care that we're on dirty concrete in a parking garage. The power I had over him at dinner. The way his team tried to protect him from me.
His free hand goes to my other hip, trying to lift me off him, but that just grinds me down harder first. The friction is perfect and terrible and—
The orgasm hits without warning. Sudden, violent, unstoppable.
"No, no, no—" But I'm already coming, clenching around nothing, soaking through his jeans. My back arches, thighs shaking uncontrollably. I cry out—a sound I've never made before. Desperate. Lost. Completely out of control.
The sound destroys him. His grip on my hips tightens, fingers digging in as his whole body goes rigid beneath me.
"Fuck, Mira, fuck—"
He comes with a broken groan, his cock pulsing against me through his jeans. I can feel it, feel the wetness spreading, feel him shaking apart beneath me. His hips jerk up involuntarily. Five days of denial ending against his will, against mine, against all rational thought.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Can't move. We're both panting, both shaking, both completely fucking mortified. My thighs tremble. Aftershocks roll through me.
"Did we just—" He starts, voice hoarse.
"Shut up."
"We just—on the concrete—"
"I said shut up."
But he's already losing it, that flustered energy pouring out. "Oh fuck, I just—in my pants—Jesus Christ, I haven't done that since high school—and you—did you actually—fuck, that's never—we didn't even—"
Heat floods my face. Rage and humiliation mixing into something toxic. I came from grinding on him like a desperate teenager. In a parking garage. Where anyone could have seen.
"Let. Me. Go."
He releases my hips immediately. I scramble off him, legs shaking so badly I have to catch myself against a concrete pillar. The cold concrete shocks my palms. My thighs are soaked. My dress is hiked up around my waist.
Behind me, he sits up slowly. "Mira—"
"Don't."
I yank my dress down with trembling hands. The fabric is damp where I was pressed against him. Everything feels wrong. Too sensitive. Too exposed. I can feel wetness on my inner thighs, growing cold in the garage air.
A flashlight beam cuts through the darkness above us.
"Security," he breathes.
Footsteps echo from the upper level. Radio chatter. Getting closer.
I start toward my car on unsteady legs. Each step sends aftershocks through me. Behind me, I hear him getting to his feet, fabric sticking to him.
"This isn't over," he calls after me, voice wrecked.
I don't turn around. Can't turn around. If I look at him—at the wet spot on his jeans, at the blood on his neck, at whatever expression is on his face—I'll either kill him or fuck him, and I can't handle either option right now.
I make it to my car. Keys shake in my hand as I unlock it. Drop them. Have to bend to pick them up, thighs pressing together. In the side mirror, I see him standing there—destroyed. He looks lost.
Good.
I start the engine and drive away without looking back. But I can feel him watching. Can still feel the memory of his cock pressed against me. Can still feel the wetness between my thighs, on my thighs, evidence of my complete loss of control. The leather seat is already getting damp beneath me.
My phone buzzes at the first red light.
Unknown number: " Interesting choices tonight, little swan. Some things can't be taken back. Be careful who sees you vulnerable. - A"
I delete it.
Twenty minutes later, I'm home. Cold shower. The water hits bruises I didn't know I had—hip bones, wrists, knees from the concrete. Doesn't help. I still feel him everywhere—the texture of denim burn between my legs, his fingerprints on my hips.
My phone lights up.
Jax: "First time I've been soft in five days. Lasted about twenty minutes."
I don't respond.
Another text: "Already hard again. Worse than before."
Another: "Going to the tracks. Need speed. Need something."
I stare at the text.
Delete.
I get in bed. The sheets feel rough against my oversensitive skin.
Fuck.