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I take him deeper, tighten one hand around the base, brace the other against his thigh, and settle into the same relentless rhythm that’s had him hanging on by a thread.

My jaw aches, my throat burns, and I don’t care because every reaction I pull from him feeds the hunger that’s been building between us.

He tries to warn me again, but I keep going, swallowing him down.

When he comes I don’t stop, letting him pulse and spill as I taste salt, sweat, and everything I’ve spent ages imagining.

His whole body trembles with the effort of dragging himself back under control, the heel of his hand pressing against his brow as though he can force the world back into place.

I let the silence stretch long enough to trace my tongue along the sensitive underside, smiling when another shudder runs through him. I ease away with wet lips, a sticky chin, and mascara smudged where my eyes watered from the effort.

Still catching my breath, I wipe my face with the back of my hand, and he’s already leaning toward me to claim another kiss.

“Now it’s my turn,” he murmurs against my mouth. “To taste you.”

The words explode through my head, somehow hitting harder than the taste of him still melting across my tongue.

I blink as my brain struggles to catch up with the fact that we’re in his car, halfway through an underground garage, with my navy dress still somehow in place.

“Fuck,” is all I manage before he tucks himself away and reaches across the gearstick, his hands finding me with the same confidence he’s brought to everything else tonight.

His fingertips skim along my waist, catching against the fitted fabric of my dress, then rise to cradle my jaw, and I toy with the idea of throwing out one of my usual smart remarks until he kisses me, stealing every thought before I can shape it.

The chill against my skin barely registers because his thumb drags along the seam of me, pulling a whimper from deep in my throat, and I arch into his hand before he answers with another slick pass that sends my vision flashing white.

My clit is so hot and swollen I’m amazed it isn’t visible from space.

He slides two fingers between my lips, the pressure perfectly wrong in exactly the way that makes my body chase it harder, the kind of friction built for disaster and for making a girl forget she’s parked in a public garage.

I’m soaked through, completely undone, and he lets me see the effect I’ve had on him before he kisses me again with the same hungry mouth that seems determined to taste every trace of me.

His hand shifts, his wrist turning until his fingers press inside me, and all I can do is gasp because he’s so far beyond good at this that my hips lift to meet every movement on instinct.

Laughter tangles with embarrassment around the edges of my moans, taking the last of my coherent thought with it, and then he moves lower.

I feel his breath before anything else, warm against my skin, and the exact instant his mouth finds me sends every muscle in my body taut because he doesn’t hesitate or test the waters.

He presses the flat of his tongue exactly where I need it, patient and certain, like a man who’s already decided he’s going to take his time.

By the time he sits up once more, his jaw is slick and his eyes are still dark, and I can see him through his pants, already hard again.

I look at the gearstick between us.

I look at him.

We both know what I’m thinking.

My lips hitch in a smirk, and that’s all the invitation he needs.

He maneuvers, a minor miracle of physics, yanking the seat lever to flatten it while side palming the steering wheel out of the way.

Somewhere in the process my heels catch on the dash and slam it, and for a split second I’m aware again of the world out there: the cartoonish echo, the possibility of some poor security guard doing rounds, pausing at the shock of voices inside this utterly respectable vehicle.

But then his hand fists in my dress and he yanks me under him, and that idea dissolves, eclipsed by the feral animal in his eyes.

He nudges my thighs open with his knees and I feel the sharp, involuntary throb beneath my navel, the pulse that says every cell of me wants this, more, right now.

He doesn’t bother undressing.