4. Tyler #2
The wet patch on the front of her jeans where my thigh has been grinding is dark with her slick. I can smell her through the denim. Sweet, dark, intensely female. The scent hits the back of my throat and rips a groan out of me before I can stop it.
She’s going to ruin me. The Ignition is going to ruin me.
Her hips buck uncontrollably, chasing my mouth.
The denim creates agonizing, relentless friction.
I can smell her slickness now. The musky scent of her arousal permeates the air, cutting through the smell of the old floorboards.
She’s soaking wet for me. Her body is primed, melting under the demand of my hands.
Cool air hits the wet marks I left on her breasts, and she shivers. I drop my hands to the button of her vintage jeans.
I snap it open. The metal clinks loudly in the quiet shop. The zipper slides down with a harsh hiss.
I don’t pull her jeans off. I slide my hand inside the unzipped denim, slipping beneath the waistband of her cotton panties. My fingers hit wet heat instantly. She’s drenched. The slickness coats my fingertips, warm and viscous, soaking the delicate cotton fabric.
I let her feel my hand for a long second before I move. Just my palm flat against her bare, drenched flesh. Just the heat of my skin sinking into hers, no barrier left. Letting her body register that I’m here, that I’ve crossed the line into her, that the cover is dead.
She moans against my collarbone. Her hips push up into my palm. Trying to make me move.
I don't move yet. I make her feel the weight of my hand against her pussy. The slow proof that I’m taking her at my own pace, on my own clock.
"Fuck, you're so wet for me," I growl, my voice a jagged sound echoing over the record player.
I don’t push inside her walls. The rule in my head is iron. She needs to be undone, shattered before I claim her. I find the hard, swollen bundle of nerves hidden in her dripping wetness. Her clit. I press my thumb against it.
She screams my name.
I clamp my other hand over her mouth. "Quiet. The shop is locked, but the street’s awake. The Syndicate is still out there."
She bites my palm. A defiant little nip. Her eyes flash at me over the edge of my hand, furious and starving. I love that she doesn't just melt into a puddle; she demands. She pushes back. She wants to take control. But right now, her body belongs to my hands. She has no control left.
I start moving my thumb. Slow, agonizing circles over her clit, spreading her thick slickness over the swollen nub. The wet, obscene sound of my fingers working against her flesh mixes with the crackle of the record player. The bassline thumps. My thumb matches the rhythm.
Press. Circle. Drag.
She whines against my hand. Her hips snap forward, trying to force my fingers deep inside her aching passage.
I block her. I keep my fingers flat, pressing down hard, denying her the penetration she's silently begging for.
"Not yet," I whisper against her ear, my hot breath washing over her skin. "You don't get all of me yet. You're going to take this how I give it to you."
My free hand fists in the back of her hair. Tilts her head up. Her eyes are blown wide and dark, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The defiance is melting into hunger in real time.
"You're going to come on my hand," I tell her. The words are low, dark, final. "Right here. Against my fingers. In the panties you should have taken off before I walked in."
She whimpers. Her thighs tremble around my hand.
"And then," I rasp against her mouth, "you’re going to tell me thank you."
The wet, slapping sound of my thumb working her clit is filthy in the dim shop. The Fleetwood Mac bassline keeps thumping behind us. The needle is moving toward the end of the song. So is she.
I apply more pressure. My thumb rubs relentlessly over her clit.
With my other hand, I grip the back of her thigh, hiking her leg up higher around my hip.
I press my own agonizingly hard cock, still trapped behind the denim of my zipper, against her core.
I grind my hips forward as my thumb works her.
Friction. Heat. Scent. Slick.
Shes spiraling. The tough, independent record shop owner is dissolving into a trembling, needy mess in my arms. I watch her face.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, her brow furrowed in pure, unadulterated pleasure.
The sass is gone. The burden of running this shop, of paying off Syndicate scumbags, of carrying her mother's ghost—it’s all gone.
I’ve wiped her slate clean. There’s only me.
Only this burning, undeniable Ignition tying our souls together in the middle of a war zone.
"Tyler. Tyler, please, I'm burning up."
Her words are a slurred, desperate prayer against my lips.
"Burn for me," I command.
I increase the speed. My thumb flicking rapidly over her soaked clit.
My hips driving forward in punishing, rhythmic grinds.
The denim of my jeans is soaked through with her wetness.
I can feel the damp, scorching heat of her against my own skin.
I’m so fucking hard my vision is blurring at the edges.
My balls ache with a throbbing need to empty my seed deep inside her.
The urge to breed her, to claim her, to ruin her for any other man on this earth is a deafening roar in my skull.
But I hold the line. I refuse to cross it. She deserves the total devotion of a full claiming when the doors are locked and the threat is dead. Right now, she just needs to break.
"Come for me, Wendy," I order her. "Give it to me right now."
She shatters.
Her body locks up rigid against the oak counter.
A piercing, ragged cry tears out of her throat.
I swallow the sound with my mouth, kissing her deeply as her orgasm rips through her.
Her internal muscles clench violently around empty air, her thighs squeezing my hips in a vice grip.
Her wetness floods over my hand, a hot, sweet deluge soaking my fingers.
She trembles violently, wave after wave of the climax wrecking her body.
I keep my thumb pressed firmly against her sensitive flesh, riding out the aftershocks with her, absorbing every violent tremor.
The slick floods through the cotton, coats the inside of her thighs, smears the front of my denim where I’ve been grinding against her.
When the last tremor rolls through her, I slowly pull my hand out of her pants.
My fingers are soaked. The slick coats my knuckles, the inside of my fingers, the rough callus of my palm.
I bring my hand up to my mouth—eyes locked on hers—and suck the slick off my fingers one at a time.
The taste hits the back of my tongue. Salt. Honey. Her.
She collapses forward, burying her face in the crook of my neck. Her chest heaves against mine. Her breath is hot and ragged against my skin.
I wrap my arms tightly around her. I hold her flush against my chest, letting the thud of my heartbeat ground her. The agonizing ache in my own groin is a secondary concern. The mission is blown. The undercover operative is dead.
I bury my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of vanilla and warm vinyl. I splay one hand flat against the soft bare skin of her lower back. Anchoring her. Letting the heat of my hand grind through the tremors.
I drop my mouth to the top of her head. Press a slow, deliberate kiss into her hair. Not soft. Not gentle. A mark. A vow.
The Fleetwood Mac record reaches the dead groove at the end of the A-side. The needle scratches against the lead-out, a steady, mechanical click that fills the locked shop. Neither of us moves to flip it.
She’s mine. I’ll slaughter every man in the Silver Serpent Syndicate who tries to take her from me.