I gasp just as his mouth crushes down on mine.
He kisses me like he’s punishing me.
Teeth, tongue, spit, grind. His tongue sweeping deep, tasting the crazy in me, and claiming it as his own. His hand is already under my top, tugging hard on one nipple. The other slides up my thigh and stays there, fingers hovering at the edge of where I’m soaked through.
“Fucking Christ,” he groans into my mouth, like he’s furious with himself for liking it. For wanting me this much. For not stopping.
He snarls, yanks me back onto his cock, hard through denim. His hips grind up in slow, bruising thrusts like he’s trying to fuck me with rage alone. His growl low and dangerous in my ear. “I warned you about my fucking bike.”
I whimper. Bite his lip. Rock back with every intention of committing a full-on parking lot felony.
“Is this what you want?” he hisses, teeth grazing the shell of my ear as he thrusts again, rougher.
“Yes,” I pant, and grind harder. “Fuck, Jett, yes.”
His hand slips straight down the front of my shorts.
“Fucking hell,” he groans, fingers sliding through wet heat. “You’re soaked already. You waiting for me to lose it, princess?”
“Yeah,” I gasp, grinding down. “Do it. Lose it.”
He snarls into my mouth. Real. Animal.
Two fingers slide inside. No warning. Just fuck and slick heat and my body locking around him like he’s home.
I claw at his shoulders, panting, whimpering, every thrust of his hand sending shocks through my spine. His palm grinds against my clit with each motion, slick and obscene, like we’re not in a parking lot in broad daylight on a Monday afternoon.
“I’m, fuck, Jett.”
“That’s it, princess,” he growls, fingers relentless, mouth hot against my ear.
I cry out, high and sharp, clenching around his fingers. My hips jerk forward, grinding into his palm, chasing every last jolt. I’m still twitching when he pulls his hand free.
Then he licks his fingers clean like it’s the best part of his day. “You taste like fucking trouble.”
And I’m still gasping, still recovering, when a throat clears.
Loud. Judgey. Like a disappointed principal catching teenagers fucking under the bleachers.
Jett ignores it. Bites down on my shoulder. I moan like a full-blown siren.
“Jett.” It’s Chad’s voice. Flat. Threatening. All ‘hall monitor who’s had enough.’
Jett lifts his head. Slowly. Looks at him like he’s something he might scrape off his boot.
“Get the fuck out of the parking lot,” Chad says, like he’s the fucking sheriff of boring. “Before I call the cops. You’re within a hundred yards.”
Jett licks his lips. Smirks against my neck. Doesn’t move.
“Hmm,” Jett hums, like he’s seriously considering if he wants to rage fuck me or murder Chad.
I snort-laugh and grin against him, unbothered, legs still wrapped around him. Then I smile at Chad without showing teeth. “Thanks for the cold shower, Craig.”
“It’s Chad,” he snaps.
“Whatever, Chlamydia.”
“Better go,” I say, dragging my nails across Jett’s chest.
