Page 82 of Lethal in Pink

His hands are everywhere. One slides between my thighs, pushing the skirt higher, his fingers finding the damp heat of me through the thin fabric of my underwear. I rock against his hand, a broken, involuntary movement.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against my skin, his accent thickening, the words coming out rough. His finger traces the soaked fabric, pressing a hard, flat circle against me through the material with a precision that makes my hips jerk. “Tell me, Amiyah. I need to hear it.”

“I want you inside me,” I say against his throat, the words wrecked and honest in a way that terrifies me. “Right now. Please.”

He groans—a low, visceral sound vibrating through his chest—and his hand moves to the waistband of my underwear, tugging them down my thighs until I lift slightly to let him pull them free. The cool air against my exposed skin makes me gasp, and then his fingers are there—dipping between my folds, spreading the wetness, his thumb dragging a slow, punishing line over my sensitive center with a pressure that has me clutching at his shoulders.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says, his voice ragged.

I reach between us, fumbling with his belt, my fingers shaking too badly to work the buckle. He catches my wrist, stills my hand, and does it himself—belt open, button undone, zipper down—and then his cock is in my hand, hot and hard and thick, the vein along the underside pulsing against my palm. I stroke him once, twice, and the groan escaping him sends a fresh surge of wetness between my thighs.

I rise up on my knees, positioning myself above him, guiding his cock to my entrance. The blunt head presses against me, slick with my arousal, and for one suspended second we’re both perfectly still, breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together, the city glowing below us through fogged glass.

Then I sink down.

The stretch is immediate and exquisite—his cock pushing into me inch by inch, filling me completely, the sensation whites out my vision for a second. I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. Jae makes a sound like he’s been punched—a choked, desperate groan—and his hands clamp around my hips, holding me steady as I bottom out, his cock buried to the hilt inside me.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his voice strained and gravel-rough. “Amiyah—fuck—you’re so tight—”

I don’t let him finish. I start to move.

Slow at first—rocking my hips, taking him deep, feeling every inch of him drag against my inner walls. His hands on my hips guide me, his grip firm, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of my skirt.

“Look at me,” he says, and when I meet his eyes—dark and burning and fixed on mine—something cracks open in my chest.

The rhythm builds. I ride him harder, my thighs burning, my core clenching around his cock with each downward stroke. His hands slide up under my skirt, gripping my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The wet, heavy sound of our bodies meeting fills the car, underscored by the ragged sounds of our breathing.

“Jae,” I gasp, my voice fractured. “I’m close—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Come for me,” he says against my throat, his accent thick and raw. “Come on my cock, Amiyah, I want to feel you—”

His hand moves between us, his thumb finding my clit, circling fast and firm, and the dual sensation shatters whatever composure I have left. The orgasm hits like a freight train, a violent, rolling wave crashing through me, dragging a scream from my throat as my body clenches around him in rhythmic pulses, my forehead dropping to his shoulder.

He follows seconds later—his hips jerking up, driving deep, a low, ragged groan tearing from his chest as he comes inside me, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. I feel every pulse, every twitch, the hot spill of him filling me until we both tremble through the aftershocks.

We sit like that for a long time. My forehead against his shoulder, his hand tracing slow, absent patterns on the bare skin of my thigh, our breathing gradually slowing. The windows are completely fogged, the city below reduced to a soft, golden glow through the condensation.

Eventually, I lift my head. Jae’s eyes are half-lidded, his hair damp with sweat, his mouth swollen from kissing.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi yourself.”

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his thumb lingering against my cheekbone.

I shift carefully, lifting off him, wincing slightly at the sensitivity between my thighs. His cum slides down my inner thigh, warm and slick, and the reality of what just happened—the condom we didn’t use—lands with a cold, dead weight.

Fuck.

I’ll deal with that tomorrow. Or never. Preferably never.

Jae tucks himself back into his pants, zipping up with a wince that makes me smirk. I pull my tank top back on, the material sticking to my damp skin, and settle back into the passenger seat, my legs drawn up beneath me, the skirt rumpled beyond repair.

His hand finds my thigh again. Not possessive—gentle, almost questioning, his thumb tracing idle circles on the bare skin above my knee. I let him.

I stare out at the Hills through the fogged glass. The city below is unchanged—the same sprawl of light, the same indifferent hum. But something has shifted. A line crossed that cannot be uncrossed.

I crossed it willingly. With full awareness.