Chapter 9: Wet Seat and a Promise
The bike’s roar faded to a ticking silence as Jay killed the engine in the detached garage. The space was large, cavernous, smelling of concrete dust, motor oil, and cold metal. His lifted truck sat in one bay, shadows pooling under its tires. Shelves along the walls were crammed with toolboxes, stacked tires, and mysterious parts. Evie’s legs were trembling as she swung off the seat, the persistent hum of the ride still echoing in her nerves.
Jay was already off, stowing his helmet. His eyes scanned the bike, and a slow, predatory grin spread across his face. He pointed at the black leather seat. “Look at that.”
There, in the dull glow of the single overhead bulb, was a dark, glossy patch. Evie’s face ignited. She’d been so lost in the vibration, in holding onto him, she hadn’t even realized.
“Someone enjoyed the ride,” he said, his voice a low tease. He didn’t wait for her answer. He stepped close, his body crowding hers against the cool flank of the motorcycle. One hand slid possessively around her waist, the other came up, and he ran a single fingertip right through the centre of the wet patch. He brought his finger to his lips, his eyes locked on hers, and slowly sucked it clean. The obscenity of the gesture made her knees buckle. “Tastes like you. All sweet and eager.”
He kissed her then, hard and claiming. His tongue pushed past her lips, mimicking a deeper, more intimate possession. She could taste herself, salty and faint, on his tongue. His free hand slipped under her short skirt, his rough palm cupping the full curve of her ass, the red lace a flimsy barrier. He squeezed, pulling her hips flush against the hard ridge in his jeans. When he broke the kiss, they were both breathing heavily, the sound loud in the quiet garage.
“Clean it up,” he said, his tone leaving no room for question. “Now. Before we go up.”
Evie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She saw the challenge in his eyes, the expectation. This was the line, the one she’d both feared and fantasized about crossing. She nodded, a quick, shallow dip of her chin.
He guided her, a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face the bike. “Bend over. Show me you’re sorry for making a mess.”
She leaned forward, placing her hands on the cold fuel tank for balance. The skirt rode up, exposing the back of her thighs and the red lace thong stretched tight over her cheeks. She heard his sharp intake of breath. The garage air was cool on her exposed skin.
She lowered her head, her face inches from the damp leather. The scent of her own arousal, mingled with the smell of the seat, was potent. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, but a deeper, darker heat pulsed between her legs. She extended her tongue and touched it to the leather.
It was salty, musky, uniquely her. She licked a slow, broad stripe, cleaning the seat. As she did, Jay’s hand slid back under her skirt. His fingers found the soaked lace of her thong, tracing the damp seam pressed against her slit. He rubbed a slow, firm circle over her clit through the fabric.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Lick it all up. Good girl.”
The dual sensations unravelled her—the degrading act, the expert pressure of his fingers. She moaned against the seat, her tongue working, her hips pushing back unconsciously against his hand.
“You’re dripping again,” he said, a dark laugh in his voice. He hooked his fingers in the side of the thong, pulling the lace aside. The cool air hit her wet flesh, making her gasp. Then two of his fingers were there, sliding into her with no resistance, fucking her slowly as she continued to lick the leather clean. “Think about this while I’m cooking. Think about what’s coming after. I’ve got all my tools here. All my toys. That pretty little ass of yours is going to remember tonight.”
She whimpered, the sound vibrating against the bike seat. Her world narrowed to the taste on her tongue, the fullness of his fingers, the promise in his words. She shook with a violent, wanton anticipation.
When the seat was clean, he pulled his fingers from her with a wet sound and gently tugged her thong back into place. He helped her stand. Her legs were liquid. He turned her to face him, wiped a stray bit of moisture from her chin with his thumb, and kissed her softly, a shocking contrast.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “Dinner first. I’m a man of my word.”
He led her through a side door and up a narrow set of industrial stairs to his apartment. The loft space was surprisingly modern—exposed brick, high ceilings, sleek furniture. It was neat, almost austere, a stark contrast to the chaotic garage below.
At the heavy door to the main living space, he stopped. He didn’t turn the knob. Instead, he spun her, pressing her back against the cool metal. His body pinned hers. One hand captured both her wrists, slamming them against the door above her head. The other settled around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, his thumb resting on her hammering pulse.
He kissed her again, a deep, consuming kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. An electric thrill shot down her spine, straight to her core. This was it. This was the control she craved, absolute and focused.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing hers. “You liked getting ass fucked last time, didn’t you? In that shitty motel.”
The raw language, the direct question, stripped away any last pretense. She nodded, her head scraping against the door. “Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“I liked it,” she whispered, then louder, her voice trembling but clear. “I liked it.”
“Good.” From the pocket of his leather jacket, he produced a sleek, tapered shape. A butt plug, glossy black, smaller than his cock but still substantial, with a flared base shaped like a polished jewel. He held it where she could see it. “Because we’re going to do it again. Properly. But first, we get you ready.”
Keeping her wrists pinned with one strong hand, he used his free hand to push her skirt up around her waist. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the red lace thong and tugged it down just enough to expose her. The air was cool on her backside. She heard a click, saw him slick the plug with something from a small bottle.
The cold, rounded tip pressed against her tight, forbidden hole. She held her breath. He didn’t ask. He just pushed, slow and relentless, a steady, inexorable invasion. The stretch was sharp, a burning fullness that made her gasp and arch, her fingers curling into fists above her head. He watched her face, his own intent, reading every flinch, every hitched breath.
“Breathe out,” he commanded softly.
She exhaled in a rush, and the plug slid the rest of the way in, the flare settling snug against her. The feeling was immense, a constant, stretching presence that shifted everything inside her. He gave it a slight twist, making her cry out.
Then, quick as a snake strike, his hand came down on her right cheek. A sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the hallway. Before the sting had even faded, he spanked the left cheek just as hard. Two bright, hot handprints bloomed on her pale skin. The pain was a bright, clarifying shock that melted instantly into a deep, throbbing warmth.
He pulled her thong back up over the plug, the lace now framing the jewel-like base. He released her wrists and his hand from her throat, instead taking her hand in his. His grip was firm, warm. He turned the door handle and pushed it open, leading her inside.
“Kitchen’s this way,” he said, as if he’d just hung up their coats. “You can watch me cook. And feel that, inside you, the whole time.”