Page 43 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

His hand closes around my wrist. Hot. Firm. Wrong.

The touch triggers something visceral. My vision goes red. My pulse pounds in my ears.

Don't touch me. Never touch me without permission.

My body moves before my brain catches up. I spin, using his grip against him, and drive my elbow toward his solar plexus. He releases my wrist to block, but I'm already moving—heel of my palm toward his nose.

He jerks his head back, avoiding the strike that would have smashed cartilage. I follow with a knee toward his groin. He twists, taking it on his thigh instead. The impact jars up my leg.

"Mira—"

I rake my nails down the side of his neck. Skin parts under my fingers. Four parallel lines of blood bloom against his skin. The copper smell hits immediately. He hisses but doesn't retaliate. Just backs up, hands raised.

"I'm not going to fight you."

"Coward."

I lunge at him. He sidesteps, catches my wrist—not rough, just firm. His palm is callused from years of gripping steering wheels. I try to break free using a joint lock, but he knows the counter. Of course he does.

"Stop."

"Make me."

I swing with my free hand. He catches that wrist too, spins me, pulls my back against his chest with my arms crossed in front of me. A perfect restraint hold. I can feel his cock pressing against my ass through our clothes. His breath is hot against my ear, chest heaving against my back.

I throw my head back, trying to break his nose. He shifts just enough to avoid it. I stomp on his instep. He grunts but doesn't let go. His arms are like steel bands around me.

"I won't hurt you."

"Then you'll lose."

I drop my weight suddenly, trying to break his grip. He follows me down, and we end up on the concrete—him on his back with a grunt of pain, me on top of him but facing away, still restrained.

I twist violently. My dress rides up to my hips. He adjusts his hold but in the struggle, I manage to flip around. Now I'm straddling him, my dress hiked up, his hands still gripping mywrists. His fingers overlap on my smaller bones, pulse racing under his grip.

We're both breathing hard, the sound harsh in the empty garage. Blood runs from the scratches on his neck, trickling down to stain his collar. My hair is wild, falling in my face, sticking to my neck with sweat. And his cock—

His cock is pressed directly against me. Only his jeans between us because I'm not wearing anything under this dress. The heat of him burns through the denim. The rough fabric against my bare pussy makes me gasp.

I try to pull my wrists free. The movement grinds me against him. The seam of his jeans drags across my clit.

We both freeze.

"Don't move," I gasp. My voice sounds strangled, nothing like my usual control.

But he's already shaking beneath me. His pupils are blown black, only a thin ring of blue-green remaining. "Can't—I can't—"

I try to lift myself off him but that makes it worse. The friction as I move—his cock is right there, pressing against my clit through his jeans. I'm already soaked from the confrontation, from his desperation, from the fight. I can feel myself getting wetter.

"Fuck—"

Another involuntary shift as I try to escape. Another wave of friction. My hips buck without permission. The rough denim catches perfectly.

"Mira, please, I can't—if you keep moving—" His voice breaks. His chest heaves under me, heart hammering so hard I can feel it.

"Then let me go!"

"You'll run."