“Oh,” I whispered, answering that demand by gliding my hands to hold tight at the side of his neck.
“We got a deal?”
“I’ve never…I…oh!” I ended on a cry as his hands slid down, fingers curling into the hem of my skirt and yanking it up.
“We got a deal?” he repeated and glided his hands in my panties to cup my bottom, skin against skin.
“Deal,” I panted.
He grinned, slanted his head and kissed me.
I slid my hands up into his hair and kissed him back.
He pushed my panties down until they fell to the floor of the garage. Then he grasped me where my thighs met my booty and lifted me up.
I felt the cold steel of the car on my behind.
I whimpered into his mouth as he bent over me, pushing me back, and I could feel the rough fabric of his jeans as I spread my legs to accommodate his hips.
“Like this dress,” he murmured against my lips, trailing his hand inside my dress up my side, up and up.
“I’m glad,” I whispered, moving my hands to his cut and shoving it over his shoulders.
His mouth went to my neck as his hands left me so I could shove his jacket down his arms.
I heard it slide to the ground as I went for his neck.
“We won’t scratch it?” I asked, dipping my hands down and pulling his shirt (not a tee, a nice one for our fancy date, though he still wore his cut because he always wore his cut) from his jeans.
“We scratch it, I’ll buff it,” he answered then slid his tongue up my neck to my ear as he glided his hand over my ribs to my breast.
“Okay,” I murmured as I reached inside his shirt, trailing up the hot skin of his back then changed directions and dug my fingertips into the waistband of his jeans.
He pressed his hips between my legs.
I nipped his jaw.
His mouth went from my ear to my lips and he kissed me.
I kissed him back and pressed up slightly as I trailed my fingers along the inside of his waistband, pulled them out and glided them down over his crotch.
He groaned and pressed his hardness into my hand.
I palmed him.
He growled and ground against me.
I panted against his lips and tightened my thighs against his hips, palming him harder, pressing and rubbing.
“Fuck, my hot little piece,” he grunted against my mouth, his thumb dragging hard against my nipple over my bra.
“Yes,” I forced out. “Hot,” I panted. “Joker,” I whimpered with need.
He slid his hand around my hip, down and through my wet.
That was my biker.
Always giving me what I needed.
I pressed into his hand and mewed.
He drove two fingers inside.
I arched, my head hit steel, my knees jerked up, and I moaned.
I felt Joker stay close but still move away, and I knew he was watching as his thumb rolled hard at my nipple, his other hand between my legs worked, fingers thrusting, thumb at my clit circling.
I grasped his hips with my thighs, rubbed his crotch with my hand as he ground into it, my other hand clutching at the flesh of his side, nails digging in.
At the same time, I rode his hand and whispered, “Baby, don’t stop.”
“Won’t, Butterfly, give me your show,” he growled.
I gave him what he wanted, writhing and squirming, arching and rocking, whimpering and mewing on top of his car as he worked me and watched.
Suddenly, my head jerked up and my eyes opened.
“Carson!” I cried, cupping his crotch hard, then my head fell back as the orgasm powered through me and I writhed and squirmed, arched and whimpered.
In the middle of it, I lost his hand but took his cock.
He was not gentle. He wasn’t slow. We weren’t making love.
We were fucking on his car.
I loved it.
Coming down I worked with him as he pounded inside to build it back up, legs and hands, fingers and lips, mouth and tongue—his and mine.
Eventually, he demanded on a grunt and an inward drive, “Get there, Carrie.”
My hand in his hair fisted and I breathed, “I’m there, sweetheart.”
Then I was.
And he was.
On his fabulous car.
In a garage called Ride.
It was naughty.
It was amazing.
It was Joker.
And it was me.
* * * * *
The next evening, feeling Joker close, standing alert at my back as he was always even when he wasn’t in the same room with me (like he was then), I opened my front door.