Prologue Sleigh Me In The Garage #2
“S’not even about the damn bike,” I manage, because my Omega personality is legally obligated to pick a fight even when ninety percent ruined. “You just want to hear me beg.”
Nash grins behind me, and the sound is filthy.
“You think I’m the one with an ego?” He slides in deeper, impossibly so, stretching me, filling me up so good everything inside me just turns to syrup. “Babe, you’re the one practically writing your own fanfiction right now.”
Touche.
I want to roast him. To push back. But I’m just…
so full, so desperate, the friction threatening to tip me over any second.
Nash’s rhythm is relentless—perfect—each stroke angled to rub me raw against the glossy tank while I squirm and tremble and try to not smear drool on someone’s collector’s item.
My nails scrape decorative snowflake stickers grafted to the side, and when I look down, there are sparkly bits of glitter catching in the garage lights, sticking to my wrists and the outer curve of my thigh.
Christmas, but make it absolute filth.
If Nash ever lets this go to auction, there’s going to be a “previously owned by a holiday influencer and entirely haunted” surcharge.
“Can you even focus, Princess, or is my cock the only thing you’re thinking about?” Nash bites, then leans in and licks a stripe along the shell of my ear. I swear I purr.
No shame.
I buck, and he releases a growl—low, sharp, and not for public consumption.
Every muscle in my body is buzzing, and every breath I take in tastes like us; like frosting, engine smoke, and Christmas morning after one too many spiked ciders.
Nash is everywhere, hands solid, grip unbreakable, and all I want—embarrassing, but true—is for him to keep going, to push until I can’t remember my own name, never mind my Vlogmas content calendar.
I squeeze around him, just to prove a point. He laughs.
“You trying to break me, sugar? In my own damn garage?”
He’s not deterred in the slightest.
He rocks back, then slams forward, intent and ruthless, and I have to bite my wrist so I don’t scream loud enough to traumatize the neighbor’s snowbound lawn deer.
The air shimmer-sticks around us, thick with want. The colored bulbs flash, sending wild shadows over our skin, and the cool, perfect finish of the Harley is now slick with sweat. There’s a streak of lipstick on the gas tank because apparently, I mouth the paint when I get desperate.
Kinky.
Suddenly Nash slows.
Just enough to make me whine, but not enough to lose rhythm.
He leans in again, the stubble on his jaw rasping sweetly at the nape of my spine.
“You know why I rebuilt this one, out of all the bikes in the world?”
I shake my head, dizzy.
“Because this engine is all raw power. Does what it wants, doesn’t pretend to be anything but a fucking beast. Remind you of anyone?”
His implication is so obvious I want to brain him with a yardstick, but more than that, I want him to keep going, to make good on every promise in his voice.
I bear down, pushing back on him, and Nash shudders.
“God, look at you,” he growls, fingers digging into the plush of my thigh. “You could wreck a man, couldn’t you?”
I want to say yes.
Instead, I just whimper, heat, shame, and pride tangled up inside me, each wave worse than the last.
The lights flare, turning Nash’s grip blue and barely-there pink, casting both of us as some kind of perverse Christmas miracle, proof that Santa really does reward the naughty.
I’m seconds from breaking. Or making him break.
Either way—plot is nothing if not unpredictable.
There’s a wind gust outside; the workshop rattles, and the decorations overhead sway on their lines, jingling like they’re in on the joke.
“I’m gonna fall,” I gasp, because if my arms give out now, I am taking this motorcycle down with me and Nash can explain the carnage to the insurance adjuster himself.
He just laughs, and slows his rhythm again—just enough that I nearly cry with the need for more.
“Don’t worry, Princess. You’re not going anywhere except exactly where I want you.”
His hand slides up, big and warm, palm flat between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the tank.
I moan, sniveling, humiliated, and evil-twinkling-lights Nash goes right back to destroying me in his perfectly methodical, absolutely devastating way.
The air is so charged with scent and sensation I’m stunned we haven’t blown out the workbench bulbs.
My hair sticks to my throat, my body buzzes with aftershocks, and the taste Nash leaves in my mouth is pure holiday infamy: burnt sugar, bourbon, salt, frost. When I angle my head, I catch a glimpse in the bike’s polished surface—wild hair, flushed cheeks, absolutely unhinged holiday glee.
“Bet you never put this on the brand deal manifest, did you?” Nash whispers, dark and close, and I nearly sob.
If I could, I’d turn around and smack him upside the head with a frosted sugar cookie.
Instead, I push back, desperate for more, my leg burning where he’s still holding me up—because if plotting requires physical endurance, I am both the main character and the tragic flaw.
He pounds in again, and my grip slips; for a split second, I’m weightless.
Nash catches me, pulls me back with one strong arm, and the humiliation is instant and total—but it also turns me molten, slicking down his thick cock, making every movement dirtier, louder, echoing off the tinsel-draped pipes running overhead.
The scent is addiction now: engine heat, Alpha musk, snowflaked citrus riding the air from outside, and my own sugar-rush lust, caught and curling around every single lightbulb in the garage.
We’re both locked in, Nash’s rhythm ratcheting tighter until I’m trembling in his grip, barely held together by a handful of muscle, a delicious antique, and the threat of total, plot-driven collapse.
He leans in, presses a kiss to the side of my neck—a brutal, claiming sort of kiss, all teeth and tongue and possessiveness—and the sensation explodes through me, white-hot, scattering every thought.
The colored Christmas lights flicker.
Or maybe that’s just my vision.
All I know is the bite of cold Harley against my stomach, the burn of Nash’s cock driving into me, and the cacophony of scent and heat and the promise of complete annihilation, wrapped up in a bow, ready to be ruined.
“Fuck, look at you,” Nash says again, softer now, but somehow more dangerous. “You gonna last, or am I gonna have to finish this bike ride myself?”
Everything in me tenses, desperate to prove him wrong. But every movement, every taunt, only pushes me closer to the edge.
“Just—fucking get on with it,” I hiss, sure I’ve never wanted anything more.
He cackles.
“Bossy. That’s what I like.”
And then he sets his jaw, digs in, and the next few minutes are a blur—heat, color, music, the rush of cold from the window, the tang of ozone and snow and sex so thick it’s almost a weather event.
He rails into me, unyielding, every thrust calculated to make me see stars, holiday lights spinning faster than the bearings in the Panhead.
I clutch at the tank and Nash clutches at me, bruising and relentless, leaving marks and words and perfect, perfect memories.
But there’s always time for Nash to ruin me just a little bit more.
My thighs ache.
Actually, every muscle in me—quads, hips, somewhere in the neighborhood of my immortal soul—is twitching on the verge of going limp, but Nash is giving me approximately zero opportunities to recover. His grip says, “don’t you dare move,” but his rhythm?
His rhythm says, “I’m going to make you scream so loud my neighbors file a noise complaint.”
Which, at this rate, is definitely happening.
He’s relentless now.
Full Alpha, dark and dangerous and laced with the giddy glee of a man who knows exactly what kind of mess he’s making.
And I am cursing him out for every second of it.
“Nash—fuck, Nash—rude, you absolute madman—” The words start as sentences and dissolve into vowels, desperate and whipped raw with need.
The wet slide between my thighs is obscene; his cock is even thicker now, and the angle? Ruinous. He’s slicked up and so am I, every inch of him driving in, stretching, grinding, until the edge blurs and all I am is a pulsing, trembling, sticky mess.
My moans? Not cute. Not curated for content.
They’re echoing off the tool racks and gas tanks and the hand-painted “Happy Howlidays” sign I stenciled over his workbench last week, bouncing around the garage like Nash’s own personal pornographic Christmas carol.
I nearly slip off the bike again, and this time Nash just pulls me back, grip uncompromising, taking me by the hips so he can piston into me even deeper, even harder.
“Careful, Sugarplum. Don’t want to wind up under Santa’s naughty list with property damage as your crime.”
“Damn—shit—you are so damn lucky I’m not in the mood to argue with you,” I gasp, muffling my shriek against the chill gloss of the gas tank. I’m starting to sweat, skin damp wherever he touches, but my cheek is freezing where the tank makes contact.
That just makes the burn hotter.
He grins behind me, I can feel it, his voice all smug Alpha.
“You threatening me, Rev?”
“I would, but you keep… you keep doing that with your hips—” I yank in a breath as he hits exactly the right spot, and my entire body tries to turn inside out.
Nash is absolutely delighted with himself.
“Tell me, Princess,” he says, punctuating each word with a roll of his hips. “You jealous of my bike? Should I be complimenting you instead? Is that what you want?”
He’s teasing. Oh, he’s definitely teasing. But underneath that, he’s watching me close, cataloguing every little twitch and whimper I make, like he’s tuning an engine and I’m the prototype.
I huff.
“I don’t need your compliments.” Lie. Lie of the century. “Not like I’m your Omega or anything, Nash.”
That tightens something in the air.
Scent, maybe—could be the charge of being called out, could be the way Nash responds on a dime, all intent and unsheathed attention.