Section 9
Cold Enough For Bad Choices
Lucky
Winter doesn’t care about your intentions.
Winter doesn’t care that you told yourself you were only staying to make sure she got home safe. Winter doesn’t care that you’re sitting on a motorcycle behind reinforced gates like a stray dog who learned how to hotwire things.
Winter just keeps gnawing at you until you make a mistake.
I shift my weight and roll my shoulders, breath fogging inside the helmet. My fingers are numb. My knee’s doing that old click thing. Somewhere behind the walls, powerful people are deciding other people’s fates over bad coffee.
I am not invited.
I am, however, stubborn.
Somewhere my drill sergeant is nodding proudly. Somewhere else my therapist is screaming.
Headlights sweep the driveway.
The gates groan open, and out steps the magnificent creature that is Gia Serrano.
“You’re still here.” It’s not a question.
“Thinking you’d need a ride back.”
She snorts.
“It’s raining, Lucky.”
I shrug inside my jacket. The rain makes the city smell alive. Makes the lights bleed. Makes everything more… intense.
Her red lips curve ever so slightly. “I don’t want to get wet.”
“Oh?” I tilt my head to the side, glad she can’t see my gleeful grin underneath the visor. This is flirting. I think. Or I’m about to be executed politely.
“You know what I mean,” she says with a scoff, but I swear there’s a hint of pink spreading across her cheeks.
“I guess we have to kill some time…”
The hum in my veins is a screaming static now. I just look at her, my throat tight. I want her to tell me. I want her to see the need and use it.
Her smirk returns, wider, crueler. She’s tall and untouchable in her ruinously expensive clothes. She takes a step closer.
“You want to be useful? Is that it?” Her gloved hand comes up, and she runs a single finger down the seam of my jacket zipper. The touch feels like pissing on an electric fence. “You’re my loyal guard dog. Aren’t you?”
I nod, a quick, jerky movement. My hands are fists on my thighs.
“Then get off the bike.”
The command cracks through the deserted street. I move before the words fully register, stumbling as I stand, my boots splashing in a puddle.
She grabs a fistful of leather, and yanks me down. My back hits the wet brick wall with a thud. She closes the distance, her body a line of heat against mine.
Okay. This took a turn.
“You’ve been a very good dog tonight,” she whispers, inches from my helmet. “Do you want a treat?”
This is not what they mean in job listings when they say “other duties as assigned.” I would like to formally object, but unfortunately my body has joined the opposing counsel.
A low, helpless sound escapes me. It’s almost a whimper. I nod again, frantically.
“Then earn it.”
With a hard yank my zipper is down, jacket spreading open to reveal the t-shirt underneath. She lifts it and licks my stomach—no warning, no excuses.
My hands fly up, wanting to touch, to grab, but they hover in the air, unsure. I need permission.
“Hands on the wall,” she orders, her voice rough. “Behind you. Don’t move them.”
I obey instantly, flattening my palms against the cold, rough brick.
This is going to be a formative memory. I can tell.
She makes a sound of approval. The rasp of the leather through the loops is obscenely loud. The button of my jeans pops, then my zipper grinds down. Her cold, gloved fingers slip inside, past the waistband of my briefs, and wrap around me.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, my head thudding back against the wall. I’m already hard, achingly so, and her grip is firm, purposeful. This is not how I imagined tonight going.
Actually, that’s a lie. It absolutely is.
“See?” she murmurs. “Good dogs get what they want.” Her hand begins to move, a slow, tormenting stroke that has my hips jerking forward involuntarily. “But only if they obey.”
Focus. Breathe. Do not pass out. Passing out would be embarrassing.
“Yes ma’am.”
“This doesn’t mean anything.”
I grin into the helmet. “Obviously.”
“No talking about it after.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good boy. Turns out I wanna go for a ride after all.” She retracts her hand, and steps back.
“You—?”
My balls ache from the loss of contact, and it takes all my willpower to not scream.
“Pants down.”
My body sags with relief, and I hurriedly yank my pants and boxers down. Fucking hell.
“Hm.” Gia licks her lips, and Lucky junior twitches in response. Her gaze moves up to my face. “Helmet stays on,” she decides. “Sit.”
I do, not even caring about the freezing asphalt assaulting my ass. She throws a condom at me with almost contempt, and I find myself grateful for the cold to focus on because she’s irresistible like this. Powerful, in control.
I roll the protection on as she tugs her trousers down, still covered by her luxurious coat. She lowers herself onto me, squeezing me with her tight, warm walls.
“Fuck…” I bite back a moan, head falling back against the brick as she takes control and slides down. I grip her hips tightly, but make sure not to thrust up into her like I want.
She shushes me. Then she begins to move, and I probably wouldn’t be able to string a sentence together anyway.
It’s rough in the way winter is rough—edges and urgency and zero patience for introspection. Gia rides me hard, fast, and unapologetic.
The force of her movement makes me glad I’m wearing a helmet, from how the back of my head slams into the wall. Bracing herself with one arm she uses me for her pleasure, and I’m 100% here for it.
Then I’m dangerously close and there’s no way I’ll let myself get off before she does.
I reach between us, and she doesn’t stop me. I find her clit and she moans in approval.
Jesus Christ. Do not think about how warm she is. Think about broccoli. Think about freakishly long toenails. That one guy who microwaves fish. Jesus Christ, think about taxes.
Ugh, emergency final boss: mom calling me. And we’re on speaker.
Her walls clench around me, and that’s the final blow to my restraint. I explode while she’s still riding the high, so fucking beautiful. So fucking perfect.
“Wow, that was—”
“Did I say you could come?” she asks and stands up.
“Uh, n-no, ma’am.”
“No. I didn’t.”
There’s a smirk playing on her lips.
I’m in trouble.
“Now you have to wear that full condom all the way home, to remind you of the mess you made.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Looks like it stopped raining.”
“But I think you got a little wet,” I say, getting to my feet with some effort and tucking my already half-hard dick back into my boxers like a good boy.
She’s by my bike, and glances back.
“This stays here,” she says.
I make a mock salute. “What stays where?”
Her mouth twitches.
I should feel used. I feel chosen.
This doesn’t mean anything. Which is funny. Because it already does.