The Desert Rose (Panam and V)

The sun hung low in the arid sky, casting a golden haze over the Badlands, where dust swirled lazily in the dry wind. V adjusted the collar of his leather jacket, the heat prickling against his pale skin as he strode toward the coordinates Judy Alvarez had slipped him earlier that day. Judy’s voice still echoed in his mind, her tone laced with a knowing smirk: “Panam Palmer’s the best nomad fixer out here, V. Dark-skinned beauty with a fiery streak. But don’t expect her to roll over for you—she’s got a spine of steel.” V’s lips curled into a faint grin. Steel or not, he’d always had a way of bending even the toughest to his will.

The hum of machinery and the faint clatter of metal on metal drew him closer to a makeshift garage nestled between rusted trailers and tumbleweeds. A sleek, retro-fitted car sat parked in the center, its hood propped open like an invitation. And there she was—Panam Palmer. V’s breath hitched as his icy blue eyes locked onto her, drinking in the sight with a predator’s focus.

Panam was bent over the engine bay, her curvaceous frame a stark contrast against the harsh, desolate landscape. Her dark brown skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, the desert sun highlighting the rich, earthy tones of her body. Those tight jeans hugged her hips like a second skin, accentuating the generous swell of her rear—a perfect, rounded masterpiece that seemed to defy gravity. Each movement she made as she tinkered with the engine caused her backside to shift, the denim stretching taut over her firm curves, practically begging for attention. V’s fingers twitched at his side, a primal urge stirring deep within him as he imagined the sound of his hand connecting with that luscious flesh.

He stepped closer, his boots crunching against the gravel, the sound barely registering over the pounding of his pulse. Panam’s head was buried in her work, her focus absolute, strands of her dark hair escaping from a messy bun to frame her neck. She wore a cropped jacket, the red and white fabric clinging to her toned back, leaving a tantalizing strip of her lower spine exposed. The straps of her gear crisscrossed over her waist, emphasizing her strength and the wild, untamed energy that Judy had warned him about. But V wasn’t here to admire her resilience—he was here to claim it.

“Panam Palmer?” His voice cut through the air, low and commanding, with a gravelly edge that made the words sound more like a demand than a question.

Panam froze for a moment, her wrench pausing mid-turn, before she straightened up just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her sharp, amber eyes met his, and the air between them crackled with unspoken tension. V’s pale complexion stood in stark contrast to her deep, sun-kissed hue, and the interracial divide seemed to hang between them like a tangible ****—an electric current of difference that only fueled his desire. Her gaze was fierce, assessing, and for a moment, V saw the fire Judy had spoken of: a headstrong nomad who bowed to no one.

“Who’s asking?” she shot back, her voice husky but edged with defiance. She turned back to the engine, dismissing him as if he were nothing more than a passing nuisance. The slight tilt of her hips as she leaned forward again sent a jolt through V, her ass jutting out even further, a provocative challenge wrapped in denim.

V’s jaw tightened, his dominant streak flaring at her casual dismissal. He wasn’t a man who tolerated being ignored, especially not by a woman whose body screamed for his attention. He closed the distance between them in two long strides, his presence looming behind her as he let his gaze linger on her curves. Up close, he could smell the faint mix of motor oil and desert sage clinging to her skin, a scent that was as intoxicating as it was wild.

“I’m V,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “Judy sent me. Said you’re the best at fixing things out here.” His eyes flicked down to her rear again, the urge to mark her as his growing unbearable. “But looks like you might need a different kind of fixing.”

Panam snorted, not even bothering to turn around. “I don’t need anything from you, choom. If Judy sent you, you’d better have a damn good reason for interrupting me.” Her tone was sharp, her independence a wall she’d clearly built high and strong.

But V wasn’t here to play nice. His hand shot out before he could stop himself, driven by instinct and the heat coiling in his gut. The sharp CRACK of his palm against her ass echoed through the garage, the sound as satisfying as he’d imagined. Her thick ass wobbling and absorbing his slap in a meaty undulation! Panam’s body jolted, a gasp escaping her lips as she whipped around to face him, her eyes blazing with a mix of shock and fury.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she snarled, her dark cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and something else—something that made V’s smirk widen. Her chest heaved as she glared up at him, her hands clenched into fists, but she didn’t move to strike him. Not yet.

V tilted his head, his pale blue eyes locking onto hers with unyielding intensity. _“Just giving you what you were begging for, nomad,” he said, his voice dripping with dominance. “That ass of yours was screaming for it, bent over like that. Thought I’d answer the call.”_

Panam’s lips parted, her breath catching as the tension between them thickened, the interracial divide only adding to the charged atmosphere. She was a dark-skinned goddess of the desert, fierce and untamed, but V was a storm of his own—a white man with a hunger to break her in, to make her yield to his will. And as her eyes flickered with a mix of defiance and curiosity, V knew this was only the beginning.