An evening of glamour and conversation becomes something more when you catch the interest of Gotham’s most admired man.
Word count: 2258
The grand ballroom of the Gotham City Gala shimmered under crystal chandeliers, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and polished ambition. You stood near the edge of the crowd, sipping champagne, your elegant gown hugging your curves as you scanned the room. That's when you saw him Harvey Dent, Gotham's golden boy District Attorney, his sharp suit tailored to perfection, broad shoulders filling it out just right. His dark hair was neatly combed, and a warm smile played on his lips as he worked the room, shaking hands and exchanging laughs.
Your eyes met across the sea of tuxedos and gowns. He paused mid-conversation, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. Excusing himself, he made his way over, glass in hand, his stride confident yet unhurried.
"Evening," he said, voice smooth like aged whiskey. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure. Harvey Dent."
You introduced yourself, feeling a spark as his hand enveloped yours in a firm shake. Up close, he was even more striking piercing eyes, a jawline that could cut glass, and that disarming smile that promised justice by day and something far more personal by night.
"What brings you here?" he asked, leaning in slightly, his cologne a subtle mix of sandalwood and citrus.
You chatted easily, the conversation flowing from the city's latest scandals to lighter topics like your favorite hidden spots in Gotham. He laughed at your jokes, genuinely, and you found yourself drawn to his passion, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about making the city better. Before long, he offered his arm. "Care to dance?"
The band struck up a slow melody, and you let him lead you to the floor. His hand settled on the small of your back, warm through the fabric of your dress, pulling you close. Your bodies moved in sync, his chest brushing yours with each sway. "You move like you've done this before," he murmured near your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
"Only with the right partner," you replied, tilting your head to meet his gaze.
The dance ended too soon, but neither of you pulled away. Instead, he guided you to a quieter corner, fetching fresh drinks. As the night wore on, the flirtation deepened his fingers grazing your arm, your hand lingering on his when you laughed. He confessed how rare it was to meet someone who saw beyond the headlines, and you admitted the same about Gotham's relentless pace.
By midnight, the gala felt stifling, the crowd a blur. Harvey glanced at you, a question in his eyes. "Want to get out of here? There's a spot by the waterfront—not far."
You nodded, heart racing. He took your hand, leading you through the throng and out into the cool night air. His sleek black car waited at the valet stand, and he opened the passenger door for you with a gentlemanly flourish. As he slid into the driver's seat, the engine purred to life, and you were off, the city lights streaking by.
The drive was charged with unspoken tension. His free hand rested on the gear shift, inches from your thigh. You shifted in your seat, the hem of your gown riding up slightly, exposing more skin. He noticed, his eyes flicking over before returning to the road.
"Pull over," you whispered, the words bold and needy.
He didn't hesitate, veering into a secluded overlook by the water, the city skyline glittering in the distance. The car came to a stop, engine idling low. Harvey turned to you, his expression hungry yet tender. "Are you sure?"
You leaned across the console, capturing his lips in a kiss that started soft but ignited quickly. His mouth was firm, tasting of champagne and desire. He groaned into it, one hand cupping your face, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you closer despite the awkward space.
You broke the kiss, breathless. "I want you, Harvey. Right here."
His eyes darkened with lust. He reclined his seat slightly, then reached for you, helping you climb over the console into his lap. Your gown bunched up around your hips, and his hands roamed your thighs, pushing the fabric higher. You straddled him, feeling the hard bulge of his cock straining against his pants, pressing right against your core through your thin panties.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding into your mouth as his fingers dug into your ass, squeezing the flesh. You ground down on him, the friction making you wet, your cunt aching for more. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured against your lips, nipping at your bottom one.
Your hands fumbled with his belt, unbuckling it swiftly, then unzipping his fly. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, the head already glistening with pre-cum. You wrapped your fingers around it, stroking the hot length, feeling it throb in your grip. Harvey hissed, his head falling back against the seat.
"Fuck, that feels good," he said, voice rough. He tugged your panties aside, his fingers finding your slick folds. He rubbed your clit in slow circles, then dipped two fingers inside your cunt, pumping them in and out, stretching you.
You moaned, rocking against his hand, your strokes on his cock quickening. The car windows fogged up, the world outside forgotten. He added a third finger, curling them to hit that spot inside you, making your walls clench.
"I need to be inside you sweetheart," he growled, withdrawing his fingers. You lifted your hips, positioning his cock at your entrance. Slowly, you sank down, inch by inch, his thickness filling you completely. He stretched you wide, the sensation bordering on too much, but perfect.
Harvey's hands gripped your hips, guiding you as you began to ride him. You bounced on his lap, your breasts heaving with each movement, the gown's neckline slipping low. He leaned forward, pulling the fabric down to expose your nipples, then took one into his mouth, sucking hard while his tongue flicked over the peak.
You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. The car rocked gently with your rhythm, the leather seat creaking beneath you.
He thrust up to meet you, his cock slamming deep into your pussy with each upward drive. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned to reveal toned chest. You leaned in, kissing his neck, biting the skin lightly as pleasure built in your core.
"You're so tight," he panted, one hand sliding between you to rub your clit again. The dual sensation pushed you closer to the edge. You clenched around him, your movements frantic now, chasing release.
"Come for me," he urged, his voice a low command. His free hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat, where he sucked a mark into the skin.
The orgasm hit you hard, waves of ecstasy crashing through you as your pussy spasmed around his cock. You cried out his name, body shuddering in his arms. Harvey followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, his cock pulsing as he filled you with hot cum, spilling inside you.
You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing heavily, the afterglow wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He stroked your back gently, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "That was... incredible," he whispered.
You smiled, still joined, feeling closer to him than to anyone in a long time and the night was still young.
You lingered there in Harvey's lap, his cock still inside you, a lazy warmth spreading through your limbs. The scent of sex hung heavy in the confined space of the car, mingling with the faint salt of the waterfront air seeping through the cracked windows. He held you close, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine, while your head rested on his shoulder, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat slowing to match yours.
After a few minutes, you shifted, lifting off him with a soft, wet sound as his cum trickled down your thigh. Harvey reached for a pack of tissues from the glove compartment, handing them to you with a sheepish grin. 'Here, let me help,' he said, wiping gently at the mess between your legs before cleaning himself up. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as if he didn't want the moment to end just yet.
You adjusted your gown, smoothing it down as best you could, though the fabric felt rumpled and lived-in now. He tucked his shirt back in, zipping up his pants, but his eyes never left yours, dark and searching. 'I should get you home,' he murmured, starting the engine again. The drive back was quiet, but not awkward his hand found yours on the center console, thumb stroking your knuckles in a way that felt intimate, grounding.
At your building, he walked you to the door, leaning in for one last kiss that lingered longer than it should have. 'This doesn't have to be just tonight,' he said, pulling a business card from his wallet and scribbling his personal number on the back. 'Call me. Anytime.' You nodded, watching as he drove off into the Gotham night, the city lights reflecting off his taillights like distant stars.
The next morning, your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Harvey. Hope you slept well. Thinking about last night. A smile tugged at your lips as you replied, and just like that, the hookups began.
It started casually a late-night call a week later when work stress hit him hard. You met at his upscale apartment overlooking the city, the door barely closed before his mouth was on yours, hands shoving your skirt up to your waist. He bent you over the kitchen counter, yanking your panties down and thrusting his cock into your cunt from behind, hard and fast. You braced against the cool marble, moaning as he pounded into you, his grip bruising your hips. “Fuck….needed this” he grunted, pace not slowing until both of you came.
You left before dawn, slipping out with a quick kiss and no promises. But the texts kept coming flirty banter during the day, building to invitations for more.
Two weeks after that, it was your turn to reach out, needing a distraction from a rough day. He picked you up in that same sleek black car, driving to a quiet park overlook. This time, you pushed him back into the driver's seat, unzipping his pants and taking his thick cockhead into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed. Harvey's fingers tangled in your hair, guiding you without forcing, his groans filling the car. “That's it, fuck…just like that,” he panted, hips bucking slightly. You swallowed around him, feeling him throb, until he warned you and came down your throat.
After, you climbed into his lap for a slower fuck, riding him with your dress hiked up, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling your nipples. It ended with you both spent, foreheads pressed together, sharing breaths in the dim light.
The pattern continued stolen nights, urgent meetings. Most being in the backseat of his car after a late dinner he insisted on paying for.
Another time, at a motel on the edge of the city to avoid prying eyes, he tied your wrists to the headboard with his tie, teasing your body with his mouth biting your inner thighs, then finally sliding his cock into you. Each thrust slow and deliberate. He kept his eyes locked on yours as you wrapped your legs around him. “You feel…fuck..amazing sweetheart” he admitted mid-thrust, and you came together, his release mixing with yours.
Just like that months slipped by, each encounter hotter, more intense, but always ending with you leaving before morning light, telling yourself it was just sex. Harvey never pushed for more, but the little things started creeping in. He'd remember your coffee order during a quick lunch quickie, he'd text you good morning after a night together, he’d text not just about the sex, but asking how your day was going. After a particularly rough time where he took you against the shower wall, he held you under the spray, washing your hair gently, his lips brushing your shoulder.
The shift happened subtly. What started as frantic, passion evolved into something deeper. You'd catch yourself lingering after, talking about his cases, your dreams, the way Gotham chewed people up. He'd cancel plans to see you, not just for the sex anymore, but to hold you on his couch, watching old movies until you dozed off in his arms.
Then on one evening, after he drove you home from a charity event another gala, ironically, where you'd danced like the first time he didn't let go of your hand at the door. Instead, he followed you inside, kissing you softly in the hallway. No rush, no clothes torn off. He made love to you on your bed, slow thrusts of his cock into your cunt, bodies moving in perfect sync, whispers of affection between moans. As he came inside you, holding you tight, he murmured against your skin, “I don't want this to end. I want this to be real.”
You looked into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability there, the man behind the DA facade. “So do I” you replied, and in that moment, the one-night stands faded into something real, something else worth fighting for in Gotham.
self shipping angst is sooo funny. yeah this is my favorite character and romantic partner i love them with my entire heart. im going to make sure i almost die in front of them
Another Nick L4D2 X Fem!Reader…and it involves another game…
Nick challenges you to a casual game of pool, he doesn’t expect to lose at least not with the whole crew watching. But when the safehouse quiets and the others fall asleep, he returns for a rematch.
The safehouse had one thing going for it: a half-busted pool table tucked against a crumbling brick wall. The busted pool table had seen better days wobbly legs, scuffed surface, a chalk cube ground nearly to dust but that didn’t stop you from running the table clean in front of the whole crew.
Nick had been the one to suggest a game. One smug smirk and a twirl of his cue stick was all it took to get Ellis egging him on, Coach grabbing the one of the last lukewarm beers, and Rochelle settling in with a smirk like she already knew how this would end.
By the third round, Nick was scowling at the felt while Ellis practically keeled over laughing.
“Man, she’s makin’ you look bad,” Ellis howled, slapping the side of the table.
Coach chuckled low. “Nick, you’re the one that said you were a hustler. This ain’t lookin’ good.”
Rochelle just shook her head. “Told you she had bite. You never listen.”
You leaned down for the final shot — the eight ball lining up clean — and gave Nick a wink just before you sank it.
He didn’t say much after that. Just cracked his neck, adjusted his rumpled white suit, and wandered off to his bedroll while the others followed suit.
Ellis was out like a light. Rochelle curled under a blanket, pistol tucked under her arm. Coach stayed up a little longer, keeping watch near the door, but even he nodded off after an hour.
It was only then in the late-night quiet that Nick returned.
You were still awake, lying on your side on the couch with your back to the table. You heard him before you saw him, the sound of him lighting a cigarette always gives him away.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, without turning around.
“Could,” he replied, voice low and rough. “Didn’t want to.”
You turned, and there he was — jacket off, shirt sleeves pushed up, hair messy, smirk soft but hungry. He walked past the sleeping bags, ghosting toward you, slow and deliberate.
“I was thinking about that game,” he said, brushing past the table, letting his fingers skim where your hands had been. “Couldn’t decide if I lost ‘cause you’re good… or because I let you distract me.”
Your lips quirked. “You saying I cheated?”
He came to a stop right in front of you, hand resting on the edge of the couch cushion beside your hip.
“I’m saying you looked too damn good leaning over that table for me to give a shit about the rules.”
Heat stirred low in your stomach.
“And now?” you asked.
His gaze dipped to your lips. “Now I want a different kind of rematch.”
He bent down, slow as a promise, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was deep from the start no hesitation, no warm-up. Just teeth, tongue, and a low groan against your lips like he’d been starving for it.
You dragged him down with you, pulling him on top as he braced himself between your thighs. His weight felt perfect solid, grounding, heat searing through your clothes.
Your pulse throbbed, hands sliding beneath his shirt, feeling warm skin and hard muscle. He groaned when you dragged your nails lightly over his stomach, and his hips rutted into you on instinct.
The friction had you both gasping.
“You always this cocky after losing?” you teased, breathless.
He smiled against your collarbone. “Only when I know I’m about to win the next round.”
His mouth traveled lower nipping your neck, collarbone, then dipping between your breasts. Fingers pulled your top up, exposing skin inch by inch. He took his time, dragging his knuckles over your ribs, teasing your thighs open with his knee.
You whimpered as he kissed your stomach, slow and reverent.
But when he slid your pants down, he didn’t hesitate.
Nick knelt at the edge of the couch, pulled you close, and shoved his own pants down just enough to free himself thick, flushed, already rock hard. He stroked himself once while looking you dead in the eye.
“Gotta keep quiet, baby,” he said, lining himself up. “But not too quiet. I like the way you sound when you’re falling apart.”
Then he thrust in deep, slow but forceful.
You arched under him, biting your knuckle, struggling to hold in the moan that punched out of your lungs.
“Fuck,” he growled, gripping your hips. “You planned this, didn’t you?”
He set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you with the couch creaking beneath you both. You clawed at his shirt, dragging him closer, thighs shaking around his waist.
Nick loved the risk. Every time you gasped, every time your breath hitched too loud, he pushed in harder. Deeper.
“C’mon, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me. Let me hear it.”
“Nick—fuck—”
Moaning his name through your teeth, desperate and ruined, climax hitting hard as your body trembled beneath him.
Nick wasn’t far behind. He hissed a curse, buried himself deep, and came with a low groan into your neck, hand fisting in the cushion beside your head.
Breathless. Sweaty. Spent.
He stayed there for a long second, still buried inside you, chest pressed to yours.
Then, finally, he pulled back, kissed your cheek, and grinned.
“I think I’m warming up to pool.”
AFTERMATH ENDING
The room was still thick with warmth, the kind that clung to skin and wouldn’t let go — heat from friction, adrenaline, and the kind of release that made your limbs feel boneless. Your breath had evened out, but your heart was still racing, thudding behind your ribs like it didn’t want to admit it was over.
Nick hadn’t moved much. One arm was draped across your waist, possessive in that now lazy way of his. His shirt was half undone, riding up slightly where you’d tugged at it — Not that he seemed to care.
“You good?” he murmured low against your neck. His voice had lost its bite, no sarcasm laced in just something quiet. Steady.
You gave a slow nod, cheek brushing against the inside of his shoulder. “Yeah… yeah, I’m good.”
He hummed like he didn’t quite believe you or like he was thinking too much. Then his fingers slid down your spine in slow, absent-minded strokes. His hand stopped at the small of your back, lingering, grounding.
You felt his chest rise under your palm as silence wrapped around you both.
“Still can’t believe you hustled me in front of everyone,” he muttered, lips brushing your temple. “You set me up.”
“You offered to play.”
“You were bending over the damn table. I didn’t stand a chance.”
You smiled, eyes closed, letting the comfort of his warmth melt the tension in your muscles. “You stood plenty of chance. You just got cocky.”
He was quiet for a second.
“Would’ve folded, even if I won. Just to see that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The one you’re wearing right now.”
You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, soft and deliberate a contrast to everything that came before. His thumb brushed over the faint red mark he’d left earlier, his touch apologetic without saying the words.
“You sore?”
“A little.”
“…Good.”
You gave him a half-hearted shove, and he laughed really laughed, quiet so as not to wake the others. It rumbled in his chest where your hand still rested.
Stillness returned. Comfort, in the spaces between you, even as the wind moaned faintly outside the boarded windows. You could faintly hear Ellis snoring, Rochelle mumbling something in her sleep. Coach shifted once on his cot.
But wrapped in Nick’s arms, you felt shielded from all of it.
I wanna do another game played between Nick x Reader (I’ve listened to his dialogue for hours and write down little things—like how he mentions a pool table, so…), but I’m trying not to be repetitive… (though I probably am—it’s currently drafted).
-One late night in the safehouse, while the others are asleep and the tension is thick as smoke, you decide to challenge Nick to a different kind of gamble-
decided to write another before I have writers block
He sat at the table in that damned white suit jacket, sleeves rolled and a few buttons undone on his shirt beneath.
You couldn’t take your eyes off him.
So you dropped a deck of cards on the table between you and leaned on your elbows.
Nick raised an eyebrow and took a long sip of his whiskey. “Sweetheart, I’ve lost fortunes and made them back in one night.” He sat forward, giving you a smirk that hit you low in the stomach. “But if you wanna see me naked that badly, you could’ve just asked.”
You grinned, already shuffling the cards. “Where’s the fun in that?”
The first few hands were playful, teasing. You lost your jacket, then your top. He shrugged off the suit jacket with an arrogant flourish, then removed his undershirt slow enough to make you ache. That damn smirk never left his face.
By the time you were down to just your panties and he was only shirtless and barefoot, jeans clinging low to his hips — the game was long forgotten. The table between you was just a boundary you were dying to cross.
Nick leaned back in his chair, eyeing you with lazy, hungry interest.
“You bluff like hell,” he said.
You stood, moving around the table. “But you never called me on it.”
He grabbed your wrist, tugging you into his lap with that quick, casual strength that made your breath catch. His mouth was on yours in an instant — hot, open, claiming. His hands roamed your back, your hips, then lower.
“Tell me,” he muttered against your lips, “was this your plan the whole time?”
You rolled your hips over him, grinding just enough to make him groan. “What gave it away?”
He didn’t answer.
He stood with you wrapped around him, turned, and bent you over the table without warning. The cold surface against your chest made you gasp.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmured, slipping your panties down. “You’re soaked.”
He undid his belt with one hand, the soft clink of the buckle echoing in the room as he freed himself and pressed the head of his cock against your entrance.
Then he pushed in, slowly but deeply, groaning as he filled you to the hilt.
Your cry hit the air before you could stop it.
Instantly, Nick’s hand came down over your mouth from behind.
“Shhh,” he hissed in your ear. “As much as I’d love to hear you come undone for me, it’d really suck if Coach or Ellis woke up and walked in on my best hand all night.”
You whimpered beneath his palm as he started to move slow, deep thrusts that made you press your forehead to the table. Each one harder than the last, driving you to the edge with ruthless precision.
“That’s it,” he gritted, watching your body take him.
Your legs trembled, every muscle taut with need. You clenched around him, biting your lip against the pressure of his hand.
Nick leaned over your back, breathing hard. “You close, baby? Hm?” His fingers tightened over your mouth.
You came with a choked cry into his hand, your body pulsing around him.
He groaned as he followed, driving deep and staying there as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding and grounding you in the most filthy, perfect way.
For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing and the rain tapping gently outside.
Nick finally pulled back, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck. His voice, when he spoke, was that low, cocky purr again.
“Next round, I’m playing for keeps.”
You glanced over your shoulder, smirking breathlessly. “Who says I’m done dealing?”
The engine’s off, but the air inside the car is thick with heat.
Maybe it’s the Georgia sun beating down on the windshield. Maybe it’s the way Nick’s sitting next to you, legs spread, arms folded, that perpetual scowl stitched into his face like it’s part of his damn wardrobe. Or maybe it’s because the two of you can’t stand each other and Coach, in all his wisdom, decided that meant you should be the ones stuck guarding the car while the others scavenge.
You shift in the backseat seat, knee brushing his. He doesn’t move.
“You could at least try not to take up the whole goddamn car.”
Nick tilts his head, smirking without looking at you. “Sweetheart, this is Jimmy Gibbs Jr.’s car. I’m just treating it with the respect it deserves.”
“By treating it like your personal recliner?”
He finally turns to look at you, blue eyes sharp, unreadable. “You jealous or just desperate for attention?”
You scoff, crossing your arms. “Please. I wouldn’t even touch you with my shotgun.”
“Bold talk for someone stuck with me in here for the next two hours.” His eyes flick downward for a beat too long—to your mouth, then your throat. The way his gaze lingers makes your skin crawl, but not from discomfort.
He notices. Of course he does.
You lean back, the seat creaking beneath you. “What? I’m not the one staring.”
Nick shifts in his seat, elbow brushing yours now, purposefully slow. “No, but you’re not exactly looking away either.”
The silence that follows is different—thick, charged. There’s no radio, no gunfire, no moaning infected to distract from the thrum of your pulse. Just the faint tick of the engine cooling and the sound of Nick breathing, close enough that you can feel it.
“You always pick fights with people you want to sleep with?” you murmur, voice low, dangerous.
Nick’s grin curls like smoke. “Only when I think it’ll work.”
There it is. The spark in his eye, the shift in the air, like a storm gathering just beneath the surface.
Your breath hitches. You don’t move when his fingers brush your knee. You should slap his hand away. You should tell him to fuck off. You don’t.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whisper.
Nick leans in, voice rough. “Show me how dangerous honey.”
You don’t remember leaning in, but suddenly your faces are too close, the heat of his breath on your cheek, the line between irritation and desire practically evaporated. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s inevitable.
When your lips crash into his, it’s fire and gasoline—too much teeth and too much want. He grabs your waist like he’s been dying to, like he’s claiming victory. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screams that this is a terrible idea.
But god, it feels so good to be wrong.
The windows fog. The world disappears. All that’s left is the ache, the tension, and Nick annoying, cocky, infuriating Nick tangled up in you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him shut up.
The moment your mouths crash together again, everything else vanishes morality, logic, the goddamn apocalypse. It’s just you and Nick and the heat clawing up your spine like wildfire.
He groans into your mouth when you tug at his shirt, nails digging into his side like you’re trying to anchor yourself. Nick is all hands now—rough palms skating over your thighs, your waist, gripping like he’s scared you’ll disappear before he gets enough. But you’re not going anywhere. Not now.
He climbs over, settling between your legs like he owns the space. Like he owns you. His weight pins you to the seat, his hips grinding down just enough to make your back arch, a moan slipping out before you can stop it.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice gravel and heat, “you sound better than I imagined.”
You shove his jacket off his shoulders, frantic, your hands all over his chest, his stomach, needing to feel. His shirt unbutton with your urgency, and your fingers trail over the skin just above his belt, making him shiver.
He’s not gentle. You didn’t want him to be.
When his mouth moves to your neck, you tilt your head back, letting him bite, suck, mark. Your legs wrap around his waist as he grinds against you harder now, the friction maddening. The windows are fogged, the leather seat sticking to your skin, but neither of you care.
You fumble at his belt—he helps, cursing under his breath when your fingers brush him through his boxers. The smugness fades from his face for a split second, replaced with raw hunger.
“You wanna keep dry fucking me or are we doing this?” you tease, voice breathless, lips swollen.
He grabs your jaw, tilting your head to meet his eyes. “I’m gonna ruin you, sweetheart.”
Your clothes hit the floorboard, disheveled and forgotten. His fingers find you first, slipping between your thighs with practiced ease, testing, teasing, slick and ready. Your hips buck into his hand, and he smirks again but softer this time. Almost reverent.
“Christ… look at you,” he whispers. “You really hate me that much, huh?”
You reach down, wrapping your hand around him. He hisses through his teeth, bucking into your palm. “Shut up and fuck me, Nick.”
The first thrust is fast and unforgiving, but it’s exactly what you both need. The car rocks slightly with each thrust, your fingers dig into his back, nails raking down hard enough to leave marks. He buries his face in your shoulder, breath ragged, voice filthy in your ear.
“You feel—fuck—feel so good. Fuckin’ perfect…”
You can barely respond, too caught in the rhythm, the stretch, the way every thrust makes your breath catch. You cling to him, wrap your legs tighter, drag him deeper.
It builds fast—heat curling in your gut, tension wound so tight you can barely think.
Nick kisses you again, all tongue and desperation. “Come on sweetie,” he growls, “come with me. Let me feel it.”
You fall apart around him with a strangled cry, nails digging into his shoulders, hips jerking helplessly. He follows with a low, guttural groan, spilling into you as his rhythm falters, hips twitching through the aftershocks.
Silence falls, broken only by the sound of panting and the ticking engine.
His forehead rests against yours, and you’re both still tangled up, sweat-slick and breathless.
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turnnoffyourmind
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