Your house

You ease the Rover into the shadowed garage, the door rumbling down like a slow curtain, sealing out the world. The air inside is cool, thick with the scent of motor oil, leather, and the lingering musk of Brittney’s arousal still clinging to your fingers. You kill the engine, but don’t move yet. The silence hums, electric.

Brittney’s breath hitches beside you, her thighs still trembling from the ride (your fingers had been buried deep, curling slow, merciless, the whole drive). You draw them out now, deliberate, letting the slick drag linger, her soft whimper catching in her throat. You bring your fingers to your lips, tongue flicking out to taste her (salty, sweet, ****). Her eyes lock on the motion, pupils blown wide.

You lean across the console, one hand fisting in her hair still tacky with dried cum, and crush your mouth to hers. The kiss is brutal: teeth clashing, tongue invading, swallowing her gasp. You pull back just enough to growl against her swollen lips, “Strip. Every stitch. You don’t wear a thing again until Ricky’s done with you tonight.”

Her pulse jumps under your thumb where it rests on her throat. She searches your face pleading, maybe, or calculating an escape, but your gaze is glacier-cold, unyielding. She nods, a tiny, frantic jerk, and scrambles out. The passenger door thunks shut. The garage light catches her silhouette as she peels away her clothes with shaking hands: sneakers kicked aside with a soft thud, jeans dragged down smooth, trembling legs, top lifted to bare small, perfect breasts that rise and fall too fast. The lace panties come last (she hooks her thumbs in the waistband, hesitates a heartbeat, then lets them drop). The fabric pools at her ankles; she steps free, naked, gooseflesh prickling across her skin in the cool air.

You circle the hood slow, predator-stalking, boots echoing on concrete. She stands frozen by the car, arms half-crossed over her chest, then dropping when she remembers the rules. You stop inches away, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her, to smell the coconut and sex and fear rolling off her in waves. Your hands find her (palms sliding over the curve of her waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, tracing the faint red welts from the desk). You cup her ass, squeeze hard enough to make her gasp, then drag her flush against you, your clothed body against her bare one.

You kiss her again slower, filthier, teeth nipping her lower lip until she whimpers, tongue stroking hers like a promise of what’s coming. Your fingers tangle in the cum-crusted strands of her hair, tugging just enough to arch her neck. You mouth down the column of her throat, tasting salt and dried seed, and bite the juncture of shoulder and neck hard enough to bruise, soft enough to make her moan.

“Perfect,” you rasp against her pulse, voice rough with hunger. “Let’s see how long you last before you’re begging.”