Page 60 of Sexting the Boss
That finally breaks him.
He slams his mouth to mine again, filthy and unrestrained, while his fingers push past the lace and slip inside me—hot, thick, and so goddamn deep I lose the thread of my breath. I grind down hard, fucking myself on his hand, and he lets me ride it, lets me use him, groaning into my mouth like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“You’re going to come in this car,” he mutters, biting down on my lower lip. “You’re going to scream for me.”
“I will,” I promise. “Just don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He curls his fingers just right, hits that perfect spot again and again, while his other hand cups the back of my neck and keeps me where he wants me. I feel it building, deep and hot, spreading through me like fire, and I can’t stop the noises coming out of me—needy, broken, completely fucking gone.
My head drops to his shoulder as the orgasm slams into me, hard and messy, and I cry out, clawing at his chest, hips jerking as he works me through every second of it.
When it finally fades, I slump against him, still shaking, lips swollen, thighs wet and trembling. His hand leaves me slowly, fingers slick, and he holds my face like I might break if he doesn’t.
I catch my breath and look him straight in the eye.
“You were right,” I murmur.
He smirks. “About what?”
“I’m going to let you take me apart in this car.”
He leans in, voice wrecked and quiet. “Not let,” he says. “Beg.”
I don’t get to recover. He grabs my thighs, lifts me off his lap like I weigh nothing, and sets me down on the seat before I can catch up. “Get in the back.”
There’s no room in me to hesitate, given how much I want his cock inside me. I scramble out and then in again, and he follows behind me. A moment of concern hits me and I ask softly, “Are you sure we won’t be…”
“No one will see us,” he replies. “On the seat, Lila.”
I slide into the backseat, the leather cool against my overheated skin, and settle on the edge, legs spread just enough to make my intent clear. Ethan climbs in after me, his broad frame filling the cramped space, eyes dark as he shuts the door behind him with a heavy thud. The windows are already streaked with condensation, sealing us into this filthy little bubble.
“Sit back,” he orders, voice rough, like he’s barely holding himself together.
I scoot back until my spine hits the far door, knees bent, skirt rucked up around my hips. He kneels between my legs, one hand braced on the seat beside me, the other already reaching for my thigh. His fingers dig into my skin, hard enough to leave marks, and I hiss at the sting, my body still buzzing from the orgasm he just ripped out of me.
“Look at you,” he mutters, raking his gaze down my body, lingering on the wet lace peeking out from under my skirt. “Fucking wrecked already, and I’ve just started.”
“Then start,” I snap, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him closer. “I’m not here to wait.”
He lets out a short, dark laugh, then he’s on me, dragging my hips forward until I’m half-reclining, half-propped against the door. He shoves my skirt up completely, exposing me, and hooks his fingers under the waistband of my underwear, tearing them down my legs in one sharp tug. The fabric catches on my ankle, and he doesn’t even bother pulling it off all the way—just leaves it dangling there like a damn trophy.
“Spread wider,” he says, and I do, no hesitation, thighs falling open as he settles between them. He grabs my hips, lifts me just enough to position me how he wants, then he’s pressing himself against me, still in his jeans, the denim rough and maddening against my bare skin.
“Fuck, Ethan, take them off,” I growl, reaching for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle in the tight space.
“Not yet,” he says, catching my wrist and pinning it above my head against the fogged-up window. “You begged for this. You’re going to feel every second before I give you what you want.”
I groan, frustrated and aching, but the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something to devour—makes my core clench all over again. He shifts, dragging himself against me harder, the friction of his jeans against my slick, oversensitive flesh making me gasp. My free hand claws at his shoulder, nails digging into his shirt, and he grunts, clearly feeling the bite.
“You’re a fucking tease,” I pant, trying to rock up into him, but his grip on my hip is iron, holding me down.
“And you’re impatient as hell,” he shoots back, leaning down to bite at the side of my neck, teeth scraping over the pulse hammering there. “I like watching you squirm.”
“Then watch this,” I say, managing to slip my pinned hand free just enough to grab the back of his neck and pull him into a bruising kiss. It’s messy, all teeth and desperation, tongues clashing as I try to take some control back. He lets me for a second, groaning into my mouth, before he pulls away, chest heaving.
“Stay still,” he orders. Before I can argue, he’s sliding down my body, hands pushing my thighs even wider. His breath is hot against my inner thigh, then his mouth is on me, no warning, no tease—just straight to it, tongue flat and dragging over me in one long, obscene stroke.
“Shit!” I yelp, hips jerking up involuntarily, but he clamps his hands on my thighs, pinning me to the seat as he goes at me like a man starved. It’s filthy, the wet sounds filling the car, the way he groans against me like he’s getting off on my taste alone. His tongue circles, then dips inside, and I’m already climbing again, so damn fast it’s dizzying.
