Chapter 5: Bred in the Garage
The garage was a tomb of quiet engines and pending storm. The phone call from Vince had pulled a shade down over Dom’s eyes, turning them from warm earth to hard flint. He moved around the Charger, checking connections with a tense, mechanical efficiency. He was already gone, halfway out the door in his mind.
Izzy watched from the workbench, her bare feet cold against the concrete. That look he’d given her in the bedroom—like she was a liability to be secured—itched under her skin. She wouldn’t be locked away. She was a Toretto. Trouble was in her blood, same as him.
She slid off the bench. The hem of her dress, one of his old shirts knotted at her waist, brushed her thighs. She walked to the car, to where he was bent over the engine bay, his back a broad wall of muscle and tension.
“So you’re just leaving,” she said, not a question.
“I have to.”
“Business.”
“Yes.”
She moved closer, until the heat from his body and the engine’s residual warmth mixed in the air between them. She pressed her front against his side, leaning into the solidity of him. “You’re worried.”
He didn’t deny it. His wrench stilled.
Her hand slipped down, palming the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans. He was hard. Tense, but hard. A tremor ran through him. “Before you go,” she whispered, her voice dropping into a low, hungry register she knew unraveled him. “Fuck me. Right here. Breed me, Daddy. I need to feel you.”
It was a command wrapped in a plea. Dom straightened up slowly, turning to look at her. The conflict was plain on his face—the urge to shelter her warring with the darker, possessive urge to claim her. The latter won, as it always did when she spoke like that.
Without a word, he took her by the shoulders and spun her around, bending her over the warm, sleek hood of the Charger. The metal was a shocking contrast to her skin. He yanked the knotted shirt up around her waist, baring her completely. The cool garage air kissed her wetness.
“Spread yourself,” he grunted, his voice thick.
Izzy reached back, hooking two fingers into her own flesh, pulling her pussy lips apart for him. She heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of denim. Then the broad, hot head of his cock was nudging against her entrance, already slick from her arousal. No preamble. No gentle push.
He slammed into her in one devastating stroke.
Izzy cried out, her fingernails scraping against the Charger’s paint. He filled her utterly, a burning, stretching fullness that stole her breath. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a brutal, driving pace from the first thrust, his hips pistoning, the sound of their flesh meeting loud in the silent garage. His hands gripped the bones of her hips, fingers digging in, sure to leave marks.
“This what you wanted?” he snarled, each word punctuated by a deep, rocking drive. “This what you need?”
“Yes! God, yes!” she gasped, pushing back against him, meeting each plunge. Her tits were crushed against the cool hood, her ass in the air, taking him. It was raw, a fuck of possession and frantic energy, each slam a wordless argument against the world outside. He was marking his territory, reinforcing the bond he was about to walk out on.