1
SIENNA
His hand spreadsover the inside of my thigh and shoves me wider, pinning me open for him as his cock drags deep enough to make my whole body jerk.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my fingers clutching helplessly at his shoulders.
He’s so much bigger than me. Broader. Harder. Older. Everything about him feels heavy and controlled and devastating, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and enjoys every second of it.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my ear, voice low and rough. “Take it.”
The next thrust punches a cry out of me.
I’m already trembling, already slick, already too far gone to be embarrassed by the wet sounds between us or the way my thighs shake every time he drives into me. One of his hands stays locked on my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me, while the other slides up over my body, cupping my throat just enough to make me shiver…
The windshield wiper drags across the glass with a wet, rhythmic scrape.
I blink.
Rain smears the windshield. The road curves ahead of me, gray and slick beneath the afternoon sky. My hands are locked around the steering wheel hard enough to ache, and my breath catches in my throat as the memory dissolves all at once, leaving nothing behind but heat and humiliation and the dull thud of my pulse.
My breath comes fast and broken. “Please.”
He lets out a dark little laugh, all heat and male satisfaction. “Please what?”
I can’t even think. He’s fucking me too deep, too steadily, the thick drag of him making my eyes sting. His mouth brushes my jaw, then my ear, and his hips snap hard enough to make me cry out again.
“Use your words,” he says.
I whimper when he thrusts again, slower this time, crueler somehow. “Don’t stop.”
“No,” he says, and I can hear the smile in it. “I’m not stopping.”
I inhale sharply and force my eyes back onto the road. The horny dreams are getting worse and worse through the last few months.
The GPS says I’m twelve minutes away.
I adjust my grip on the steering wheel and glance at the garment bag hanging from the hook in the back seat, my planner open on the passenger side, my phone face up over a stack of printedtimelines I only skimmed at two red lights and one gas station parking lot.
Everything about this feels last-minute.
Everything about itislast-minute.
Which is how I ended up driving alone toward a sprawling estate in upstate New York to coordinate a wedding weekend for people I’ve never met, because my best friend called me in tears this morning and said she needs a miracle.
I take the next bend a little too fast, then ease off the gas when the road narrows between rows of dripping trees and old stone walls.
The kind of road that leads somewhere private.
Exclusive.
The kind of place that has a name instead of an address.
My phone buzzes once against the folder beside it, but when I glance down, it’s just another automated payment reminder I don’t need haunting me while I’m driving. I mute it without reading the rest and keep going.
Talia’s voice comes back to me so clearly it may as well be filling the car.
“Sienna, please.”