Page 44 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Yes!"

He releases one wrist to grab my hip, trying to still me. His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise. But the adjustment makes me slide against him again. The seam of his jeans catches my clit perfectly.

"Oh fuck—"

"Don't—Jesus, don't make that sound—"

I'm trying to climb off him but every movement makes it worse. He's so hard beneath me, and the angle, the pressure—my body doesn't care that we're on dirty concrete in a parking garage. The power I had over him at dinner. The way his team tried to protect him from me.

His free hand goes to my other hip, trying to lift me off him, but that just grinds me down harder first. The friction is perfect and terrible and—

The orgasm hits without warning. Sudden, violent, unstoppable.

"No, no, no—" But I'm already coming, clenching around nothing, soaking through his jeans. My back arches, thighs shaking uncontrollably. I cry out—a sound I've never made before. Desperate. Lost. Completely out of control.

The sound destroys him. His grip on my hips tightens, fingers digging in as his whole body goes rigid beneath me.

"Fuck, Mira, fuck—"

He comes with a broken groan, his cock pulsing against me through his jeans. I can feel it, feel the wetness spreading, feel him shaking apart beneath me. His hips jerk up involuntarily. Five days of denial ending against his will, against mine, against all rational thought.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Can't move. We're both panting, both shaking, both completely fucking mortified. My thighs tremble. Aftershocks roll through me.

"Did we just—" He starts, voice hoarse.

"Shut up."

"We just—on the concrete—"

"I said shut up."

But he's already losing it, that flustered energy pouring out. "Oh fuck, I just—in my pants—Jesus Christ, I haven't done that since high school—and you—did you actually—fuck, that's never—we didn't even—"

Heat floods my face. Rage and humiliation mixing into something toxic. I came from grinding on him like a desperate teenager. In a parking garage. Where anyone could have seen.

"Let. Me. Go."

He releases my hips immediately. I scramble off him, legs shaking so badly I have to catch myself against a concrete pillar. The cold concrete shocks my palms. My thighs are soaked. My dress is hiked up around my waist.

Behind me, he sits up slowly. "Mira—"

"Don't."

I yank my dress down with trembling hands. The fabric is damp where I was pressed against him. Everything feels wrong. Too sensitive. Too exposed. I can feel wetness on my inner thighs, growing cold in the garage air.

A flashlight beam cuts through the darkness above us.

"Security," he breathes.

Footsteps echo from the upper level. Radio chatter. Getting closer.

I start toward my car on unsteady legs. Each step sends aftershocks through me. Behind me, I hear him getting to his feet, fabric sticking to him.

"This isn't over," he calls after me, voice wrecked.

I don't turn around. Can't turn around. If I look at him—at the wet spot on his jeans, at the blood on his neck, at whatever expression is on his face—I'll either kill him or fuck him, and I can't handle either option right now.

I make it to my car. Keys shake in my hand as I unlock it. Drop them. Have to bend to pick them up, thighs pressing together. In the side mirror, I see him standing there—destroyed. He looks lost.