Ride It
—⊹ this work was originally commissioned and given consent to be shared (personal details about the commissioner had been edited out)
MDNI 🔞 You accepted to help Rafayel with his bad mood tonight, accompanying him to the networking event. You never said how you'll help, though. And no one said anything about making it to the venue, either...
⋆. — content warnings: canon-compliant, inappropriate driving activities, teasing, dirty talk, semi-public sex, handjob & blowjob while driving, switch rafayel (& mean-ish), car sex, backseat sex, riding, rough manhandling & ripped clothes, creampie.
The silk of your dress keeps catching on the leather seat every time you shift, and you’ve shifted about eleven times in the last four minutes because Rafayel’s been counting out loud, and the twelfth time your thigh peels away from the red leather with a sound that makes your face warm, he holds up a finger without even glancing at you.
“Twelve,” he announces, his wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel while the coastal city lights blur into long golden streaks against the windshield. His voice is light and almost bored, but the corner of his mouth is doing that thing where it curves up on one side, the side closest to you, and he knows you can see it.
You tug the hem of your dress down and cross your legs in the other direction, the seatbelt pulling taut against your chest. He’d picked this dress. Showed up at your apartment an hour ago with a garment bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all, like it wasn’t a custom piece he’d had made for you with a neckline that dips low enough to make every breath feel dangerous and a slit that rides dangerously high on your left thigh.
The fabric is this deep midnight blue that he swore matches the exact shade of the ocean at dusk, and you’d rolled your eyes at him until he pinned you against the hallway wall and whispered that he’d sketched the design during a meeting Thomas made him attend, that he’d been thinking about the way this shade of blue would pool around your collarbones while someone was talking to him about profit margins. You’d shoved him away and told him to wait in the living room. He’d gone with a grin that looked like it tasted of something victorious.
He looks devastating tonight and you keep trying not to notice but the car is too small for that kind of restraint. The red ambient lighting keeps catching the sharp line of his jaw, the elegant slope of his nose, the beauty marks that dot his fair skin like constellations you’ve long since memorized with your mouth.
His hair is swept back from his face, the usual soft waves of purple tamed into something more intentionally handsome, and the black silk shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned one button too many, exposing the smooth column of his throat and the faintest inch of collarbone where a thin silver chain catches the light every time he turns the wheel.
His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, exposing the lean muscle there, the tendons that flex when he shifts gears, and you remember very specifically how those forearms look when they’re braced on either side of your head so you look away and press your thighs together under the dress.
He’s been sulking since Thomas called. You know just how irritated he is tonight because Rafayel never likes being pestered about attending these events but even by his own dramatic standards he’s been more fussy than usual, had spent ten full minutes sprawled across your couch with his head in your lap complaining about networking events and collectors who don’t understand art trying to talk to him about art, and people who smile with too many teeth, and Thomas’s inability to comprehend that creative genius cannot be scheduled. The whole performance ended with him catching your wrist and pulling you down onto his chest, his lips brushing the shell of your ear when he mumbled that he’d only survive the evening if you came with him.
So here you are. In his ridiculous red sports car that hugs every curve of the coastal road, the engine purring low and constant beneath you, his cologne filling the small space with something warm and oceanic that keeps settling at the base of your skull.
You know exactly how to ease that tension away, how to make those beautiful brows unknit the frown sitting between them, how to coax that tight jaw loose. You’ve been thinking about it since he walked into your apartment looking like something that ruins lives, since you watched him lean against your kitchen counter and eat a strawberry while maintaining eye contact, knowing exactly what he looks like with berry juice on his bottom lip. So you smile to yourself, private and slow, and shift in your seat one more time just to hear him count it.
“Thirteen.” he still isn’t looking at you.
“How long until we arrive at the venue?” you ask, turning your head just enough to watch the way his profile catches the passing streetlights, the way the shadows fill the hollow of his throat where you want to put your mouth.
His fingers drum against the steering wheel, an uneven pattern, restless. “About twenty minutes.” he tilts his head the slightest fraction, his eyes flicking toward you and then back to the road, the lashes catching the light. “Why?”
“Nothing.” you let one second pass, settling deeper into the seat, letting your palm trail down your own thigh in a gesture that might be absent if he weren’t tracking it with his peripheral vision. You feel him tracking it. “Just curious.” you let the silence sit between you for exactly three seconds. “Can you make it half an hour?”
His chin dips, his thumb pauses mid-tap, and that muscle in his jaw, the one that always gives him away, flexes once. He doesn’t turn to look at you but you watch the way his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, the way his grip adjusts on the steering wheel, fingers curling and uncurling.
“Tsk.” the sound is soft, almost musical, a little click of his tongue that he weaponizes the way other people weaponize compliments. “What are you plotting, cutie?”
You uncross your legs slowly, letting the slit of the dress fall open to expose the full line of your thigh, and angle your body toward him. Your knee nearly brushes the gearshift. You watch his nostrils flare softly.
“Seeing as you don’t actually wanna attend this event,” you start, keeping your voice light and conversational, “and also that you seem extra irritated tonight...”
His knuckles whiten on the wheel.
“I thought I’d help.”
The words hang in the air between you and you can practically feel the temperature in the car change (or is it your own body heating up in anticipation?), can feel the way his attention sharpens even though he’s still staring at the road, can feel the precise moment his brain catches up to the implication because his breath changes, shortens by a fraction, and the drumming on the wheel stops entirely.
“Help?” he repeats, and the word comes out lower than he probably intended, a little rougher and not all that casual. You catch the way he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the silver chain at his throat, and the sight of it sends a pulse of warmth through your lower stomach. Such a beautiful neck, yours too kiss. You can’t wait to stain it with your lipstick.
You reach over and rest your hand on his thigh, just above the knee. Fingers light, palm warm through the expensive fabric of his trousers. You feel the muscle jump beneath your touch, an involuntary twitch that he can’t hide no matter how carefully he arranges his expression, and the way his body answers you before his mouth can, makes you hot all over.
“Yeah, y’know...” you let your hand slide an inch higher, thumb tracing a slow circle along his inner thigh, your voice dropping into something softer, “Give you a helping hand...” your fingers follow the inseam of his trousers upward, featherlight, barely there. “...Or a mouth.”
The car swerves.
Not much, just enough that his knuckles go bone-white on the steering wheel before he corrects, just enough that the tires hum across the road, and the sound that leaves him is somewhat of a mix of a laugh and a groan, this low punched-out thing that catches in his throat and makes heat crawl up the back of your neck and settle between your thighs.
Rafayel makes the best sounds.
“Oh, cutie.” he laughs, but the sound is ragged and breathless, and when he glances at you his pupils have swallowed up the pink until his eyes are nearly all blue. His tongue drags slowly across his lower lip and he shakes his head, but his thigh pushes up against your palm. “Just say you wanna fuck me in my car. You don’t gotta dress it up all sweet and helpful like you’re doing me some kinda favor.”
His gaze drops to where your hand rests on his thigh and then drags back up to your face, slow and knowing. “I could see you squirming in your seat ever since we left Whitesand Bay. Pressing those pretty thighs together every time I shifted gears, thinking I wouldn’t notice that. Baby, I notice everything you do.”
Your cheeks burn. The audacity of him calling you out so bluntly while his thigh is tensing under your hand, while his chest is rising and falling just a little too fast beneath that silk shirt, while there’s a visible strain beginning to press against the front of his trousers that he hasn’t even tried to adjust.
“Well...” you press your palm flat against his inner thigh, letting him feel the full warmth of your hand, and drag it very slowly higher until your fingers graze the line of his belt. You feel the muscles of his stomach contract above your reach. “We never fucked in your car, so...”
The sentence hangs unfinished, half-whispered, and you watch it land on him like a blow, watch the way his lips part and his breath catches through his nose and his hips rock forward just a little, pressing against the seatbelt, an unconscious movement that pushes his thigh harder into your hand. You know he wants you to touch him, but he ain’t letting go off that pride yet.
The cat still wants to play with the mouse first, before the mouse gets eaten whole.
“Nah, we haven’t, have we?” he murmurs, and his voice has dropped into something darker and thicker, a register that always makes the fine hairs on your arms stand up because it means something hungrier is surfacing. “But I’ve thought about it. Thought about it a lot, actually. You in this passenger seat with your legs on the dash, you in the back seat with those pretty thighs around my hips...” he trails off, chewing the inside of his cheek, and his free hand drops from the steering wheel to cover yours on his thigh, pressing it down harder. “Didn’t think you had the nerve, though. You’re always so proper in public. My responsible little hunter.”
You lean closer, close enough that your lips nearly brush his ear, and you feel the full body shiver that rolls through him when your breath ghosts across his neck. His neck has always been sensitive, so you take advantage of that.
“I’m not technically in public right now,” you whisper, and your fingers curl against the bulge straining his trousers, a firm press that makes his hips jolt and a sharp hiss escape between his teeth.
“Fuck...” his head tips back against the headrest for half a second before his eyes snap open, remembering the road, his jaw clenching so hard you can see the tendons strain in his neck. “You’re gonna... okay. Okay.” he exhales hard through his nose and adjusts his grip on the wheel, his knuckles the color of bone. “You sure you wanna start something you gotta finish in a moving vehicle, cutie? ‘Cause I’m not the one who’s gonna have to explain to Thomas why we’re late.”
You puff out a little giggle, a cheshire smile painting your face as you move to unbuckle your seatbelt. His eyes snap to you, to the road, to you again. His throat works. “What are you...”
But you’re already leaning over the center console, the leather creaking under your shifted weight, your hand sliding from his thigh to the metal of his belt buckle, and the sound he makes when your fingers find it is this low, punched-out breath that he tries to cover with a cough and fails entirely.
His hips lift off the seat just enough for you to work the belt open and pop the button of his trousers with ease. You’ve undone it a hundred times in a hundred different rooms, and that thought makes you hot all over.
The zipper is loud. Everything is loud now, amplified by the small cabin of the car. The rustle of fabric and the pant of his breathing and the wet click of his mouth parting and the dull steady roar of the engine beneath you.
You pull him free and wrap your hand around him, and the weight of his cock in your palm is hot and hard and familiar, already straining, already thick with blood. The groan that tears from his throat is guttural and loud, filling the car like sweet music.
“Oh fuck, okay.” his hand leaves the wheel and grips the headrest behind him, fingers digging into the leather, before he realizes he needs both hands to drive and grabs the wheel again with a shaky exhale. “You really just... you just went for it, huh. No warm-up, no buildup, just straight to... fuck, your hands are so warm.”
You stroke him slow, base to tip, tightening your grip at the head the way you know makes his brain stutter, and his hips push up off the seat to try and press into your fist, the muscles of his thighs quivering beneath the fabric of his pants.
“You’re so hard already,” you murmur against his thigh, pressing your lips to the fabric, and the sound he makes is embarrassingly close to a whimper, high and thin and bitten off.
“Yeah, well, you wore that dress,” he grits out, his voice shaking, “and you’ve been crossing and uncrossing your legs for twenty minutes and you smell like... you smell so fucking good, I’ve been half hard since you got in the car, sue me.”
You lower your mouth to him.
The first contact, just your lips, soft and barely parted against the head, makes his whole body jolt like he’s been electrified. His foot stutters on the gas and the car lurches before he catches it, a strangled curse leaving him. You take just the tip at first, your tongue flat and hot against the sensitive underside, tracing the vein there, tasting salt and clean skin and the faint musk of his arousal that settles heavy on the back of your tongue. You’re high on this scent, and it never fails to get you wetter.
“Fuck...” his voice cracks, breaks open. “You’re gonna make me crash, cutie...”
His free hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pushing you down more on his cock, desperate to have the warmth of your mouth envelop him. You feel his pulse hammering in the thick vein pressed against your tongue, feel the twitch of his cock against the roof of your mouth when you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks.
You pull off slowly, letting him feel the drag of your lips, and press your mouth to the inside of his thigh through his trousers, your breath ghosting hot across the damp fabric. You look up at him through your lashes and his jaw is clenched so hard you can see every tendon in his neck straining, a deep flush spreading from the open collar of his shirt up his throat and across his ears, his pupils blown wide and glassy.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Raf.” you let your lips brush his tip while you speak, just barely, just to watch his stomach clench violently beneath the shirt. “That is, if you want my pretty mouth to continue working...”
“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing, huh?” his fingers tighten in your hair, but this time not pulling or pushing. His hand is just gripping, sending a pulse of wet heat between your own thighs. “You’re genuinely evil and I’m gonna remember this, cutie, I’m gonna remember exactly how smug you look right now and I’m gonna make you pay for it later, I promise you that.”
You just hum and take him back into your mouth, deeper this time, relaxing your throat and swallowing around him until your nose nearly presses against his stomach. He almost sobs at the instant warmth and pleasure shooting through his body, from navel to throat, small moans caressing your own skin.
“Shit...” he’s panting now, open-mouthed, his ribs expanding fast beneath the parted shirt. “You’re so damn good at this. You’re so... fuck, do that again, the thing with your... yeah, yeah that, oh my god.”
You work him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, twisting at the base, your tongue flattened and pressing hard on every upstroke, and the sounds coming from him are obscene, little broken moans and hitched breaths and whispered curses in fragments Lemurian. You feel it all, feel the vibration of his voice through his body, feel the way his thighs shake beneath your forearms, feel the way his hips keep stuttering up despite his best efforts to stay still.
The speedometer drops. You can feel the car decelerating, the hum of the engine lowering in pitch. His foot can’t seem to find the pedal and there’s something intoxicating about that, something that makes you wet and achy between your thighs, the knowledge that you’re reducing Rafayel to a broken, beautiful mess on a coastal highway with just your mouth, that his smugness and all his dominance dissolving one slow stroke at a time.
You take him deep again and swallow around him while his hand fists in your hair, finally pulling at it, a sharp involuntary tug that sends a bolt of sensation straight down your spine to your pussy. You can’t help but moan around him and the vibration of it makes his whole body shudder.
“Okay, okay, stop, stop stop stop,” he gasps, and his hand on your head pushes gently this time, trembling, easing you off. “I’m gonna... I can’t... you gotta stop or I’m either gonna cum down your throat or crash this car and right now both of those feel equally likely.”
You sit up, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb, and the sight of him makes your breath catch. His hair is falling loose across his forehead, the careful styling ruined now, and his lips are bitten red and parted, his chest heaving, his cock still wet from your mouth and hard against his stomach, and his eyes when they meet yours are wild, nearly black, desperate in a way that makes your pulse kick between your legs.
The car is already decelerating hard. The turn signal clicks rapidly and frantically as he yanks the wheel and pulls off the highway onto a side road that winds between darkened buildings near the waterfront. He kills the headlights and throws the car into park and the engine ticks in the sudden silence, loud as a heartbeat.
He turns to you and the look on his face makes the air vanish from the car. The sight before you, of Rafayel all disheveled with his cock wet from your mouth and his lips bitten, eyes almost black and starving... it only makes the throbbing of your pussy intensify. The blush burning across his collarbones and up his throat makes you bite your lower lip, too. Almost like wanting to match him.
“Get in the back seat.”
His voice has dropped into a register you rarely hear, low and commanding, which does something devastating to the throbbing between your thighs, turning it sharp and urgent and consuming. He might look more disheveled than you, but you’re just as far gone, needy and wet and wanting his hands on you. Still, you wanna play a little more.
“Please?” you tease, because you can’t help it, because even with your pulse hammering and your underwear soaked and every nerve in your body screaming at you to move, the chance to watch him lose his mind a little further is irresistible.
His hand catches your jaw roughly, his thumb pressing into the soft skin beneath your ear, and he pulls you forward and kisses you with a hunger that steals the thought right out of your skull. His tongue slides against yours messily and you taste the wine he’d had at your apartment before you left, sweet and warm. His teeth catch your lower lip and he tugs a little too harshly, pulling a sound from you that you don’t recognize, and when he releases you his mouth hovers close enough that his breath ghosts across your wet lips, making you moan softly. Needy for more.
“I said,” he murmurs, and his thumb traces along your jaw, down the line of your throat, and catches in the neckline of your dress, “get in the fucking back seat.”
He pulls hard, so hard that the silk rips instantly. The sound is sharp and expensive and it shoots through you like something electric, your gasp swallowed by the small hot space between your mouths. He fucking ripped the dress off you, this smug little—
“Oops.” he looks down at the torn fabric falling away from your chest, exposing the bare skin beneath, the lace of your bra where your nipples are perked, and his eyes drag slow and heavy across you with satisfaction, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “That’s a real shame. I worked hard on that design.”
“You’re replacing that,” you scold him, but your voice is breathless and thin and shaking and the words have no teeth at all.
“I’ll make you ten more.” he reaches past you and pulls the seat lever and the passenger seat slides back, giving you clearance to climb between the front seats. “Go.”
You climb into the back gracelessly, your knee catching on the center console, your elbow bumping the seat, and you can feel his eyes on you the entire time, how they shamelessly linger on the curve of your spine through the torn dress, on the backs of your thighs as you settle into the red leather of the backseat.
He follows. Of course he’s more graceful about it, unfolding his long frame through the gap with an ease that shouldn’t be possible in a sports car, and he settles against the door with his legs spread, his trousers open, his shirt hanging off one shoulder where you’d apparently pulled it at some point without realizing. The red leather cradles him like it was designed for this exact moment and he looks up at you through those lashes with the laziest, most devastatingly smug expression you’ve ever seen on another person’s face, his cock hard and flushed against the dark fabric of his trousers, still wet from your mouth and leaking.
“C’mon, baby.” he pats his thigh twice, the sound sharp in the quiet car, while his tone is so smug and so sexy you want to kiss him stupid for it, “You wanted this so bad you couldn’t even let me drive twenty minutes without getting your mouth on me. So show me, yeah? Show me how bad you want it.”
You straddle him and his hands find your hips immediately, fingers pressing hard into the flesh through the thin fabric, yanking you down against him. The contact, the thick hard length of him pressed right against you through the soaked lace of your underwear, makes you both groan at the same time, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.
“Goddammit, you’re soaked.” his fingers slip between your thighs from behind, pressing against the wet fabric, followed by his breath punching out of him hot against your skin. “You’re this wet already, baby? From sucking me off? That really does it for you, doesn’t it, cutie?”
He pulls the lace aside and drags two fingers through the slick heat of you, slow and exploratory, spreading the wetness up and around your clit and then back down, and the moan that falls from your mouth is high and involuntary and you feel his cock twitch against your thigh at the sound. “That’s so fucking hot. You have no idea how hot that is.”
“Raf, baby...” you breathe, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips rolling down against his hand, chasing the pressure and the pleasure you know they’ll bring you if only he’ll give it to you.
“Mm-mm, not yet.” he pulls his glistening fingers away, and the loss of contact makes you whimper, a sound you would be embarrassed about if you could think clearly, which you cannot. He holds those two slick fingers up between you, examining them in the low red light of the car like they’re something fascinating, something worthy of study, and then brings them to his mouth and licks them clean with a slow and so damn sensual drag of his tongue. His eyes don’t leave yours. “Been wanting to taste you all night. Ever since you walked out of your bedroom in this dress looking like something I’d paint and never sell... I only thought about tasting you, before and after I fuck you dumb, of course.”
Your pussy clenches at the filthy things he says, leaking in his lap over the expensive pants he wears. But you don’t care and neither does he. In fact, he revels in it like a cat in the sunlight, smirking up at you and cupping your bare ass, squeezing tight. Nibbling at your jaw, his tongue traces over and down your neck, hot and wet and prompting your thighs to clamp harder around his torso.
“My mind was filled with all the opportunities I’ll get to spread you on my fingers and my cock tonight. To be completely honest with you, cutie, I thought you’d at least keep your hands to yourself until we arrived at the venue, and then drag me into a corner or something.” The image he’s painting is downright filthy, and your mind can’t help but go berserk with every little sweet-nothing he says, picturing him fucking you in a secluded corner of the venue, fill you with his cock in the restroom, fuck you on his fingers somewhere under a table. “But nah, you wanted to run your pretty mouth all over my cock in my car first, such a naughty little girlfriend I have.”
You grab the collar of his ruined shirt and crush your mouth against his, tasting yourself on his tongue, salt and musk. That’s all he needs to smirk into the kiss, his tongue insistent as it slides into your mouth, dancing with your desperate one.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear and pull hard, the elastic giving with a snap that stings your hip and makes you gasp in both pain and pleasure, leaking even more down your thighs.
“You keep ripping my clothes,” you hiss against his mouth. You love it, though. So much in fact that you wish he’d do it more often. But he doesn’t need to hear that now, doesn’t need more ammunition to be such a smug little prick.
“Keep wearing things I wanna rip,” he murmurs back, tossing the ruined lace somewhere into the front seat without looking, his hands returning to your bare hips, thumbs digging into the hollows where your thighs meet your pelvis, holding you open above him. “Now, c’mon. I wanna watch you take me.”
You reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him and he hisses through his teeth, his abs clenching beneath the parted silk. You position him against you, the head of his cock pressing hot and blunt against your squeezing hole, and you just hold it there, letting him feel the wet heat of you without sinking down. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, and then his palm goes flat and fast against your thigh. Smack. His slap is not by any means rough, but it makes you moan instantly, clenching around the tip of his cock.
“Don’t tease me right now,” he grits out, and for the first time tonight his voice isn’t playful or smug or teasing. No. It’s raw, almost pleading, but even like that you know you’re in trouble if you keep teasing him. “I swear to god, don’t...”
You sink onto him.
Slow. Inch by inch. Letting yourself feel every stretch, every thick hot inch of him filling you, the burn of it mixing with the slick glide until he’s fully seated and your thighs are flush against his hips and the moan that falls from your mouth is long and shaking and comes from somewhere deep in your chest. He fills you up so good, every damn time.
“Oh fuuuck...” his head drops back against the window with a thud, his eyes rolling closed, his mouth falling open around a sound that isn’t quite a word, this broken guttural thing that reverberates through the car and through your ribs. “Fuck, you feel... you always feel so fucking good, how do you always feel this good...”
You plant your hands on his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin silk, and roll your hips in a slow deep grind that makes his stomach contract and his fingers spasm on your hips. The friction pulls a moan from him that sounds almost pained, making you clench again.
“That’s it.” his eyes open, dark and glittering, and he licks his lips and settles deeper into the seat effortlessly, making your stomach drop. His hands lift from your hips. He reaches up, laces his fingers behind his head, and leans back against the window. The posture is infuriatingly casual, obscenely relaxed, his shirt hanging open, his abs tensed beneath, his cock buried inside you, and the look on his face is the most insufferable thing you’ve ever witnessed. “Go ahead, baby. Do all the work. You’re the one who dragged me off the road for this. You’re the one who couldn’t wait twenty minutes for my cock.”
You still in his lap, your thighs burning from the stiff position, your breath caught between your ribs, the fullness of him inside you making it nearly impossible to form coherent thoughts. “You’re fucking unbelievable... Are you serious?!”
“Tsk, ‘course I’m serious.” he rolls his hips up, one single lazy thrust that grinds deep and hits that spot inside you that makes white light burst behind your eyes, and then stops completely. His smile curls slow and devastating and dripping with satisfaction. “I’m just giving you what you wanted, cutie. Full access. Use me. You’ve been thinking about riding me in this car since we left Whitesand Bay, right? I could see it in your face. Those big pretty eyes kept drifting to my lap every time I shifted gears.” he drops his voice lower, a conspiratorial murmur. “So stop stalling and fuck me like you’ve been fantasizing about.”
The challenge in his voice ignites something in you, something competitive and desperate and burning to prove him you can do all the work, and reduce him to ashes in the process. You lift your hips until only the tip of him remains inside you and then drop back down hard, the slap of skin against leather making a choked moan punch out of his chest, his fingers unclasping from behind his head to grip the seat.
“Fuck, just like that,” he groans, his jaw clenched now, his flush deepening across his chest and throat while his cock pulses and twitches inside you. “Don’t stop, keep going, just like...”
You set a rhythm that makes his spine arch off the seat, rolling your hips on every downstroke, grinding your clit against his pelvis... The friction is maddening on both ends, building a tight hot coil low in your belly that winds tighter with every thrust up and down. The wet sound of your bodies meeting fills the small space, obscene and rhythmic, punctuated by his broken moans and your sharp gasping breaths and your sloppy mouths devouring each other.
“Faster,” he grits out, and the command is undermined by the way his voice breaks on the second syllable, by the way his hands have found your hips again and are gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints, by the desperate clench of his abs as he fights not to thrust up into you.
You slow down instead. A long grind that makes his cock drag against every nerve inside you and you bite your lip against the sound it pulls from your throat, keeping your pace torturously measured.
“Ask nicely,” you taunt, circling your hips, and the look on his face is something you want to photograph and frame, devastation and disbelief and agonized arousal all tangled together.
“You...” his head drops forward against your sternum, his forehead hot and damp against your skin, a strangled sound muffled against the valley of your breasts. “You’re really gonna make me beg, yeah? In my own car?”
“I might.” you clench around his cock, making his whole body shake at the tightness, his moan vibrating against your right nipple.
“Please...” the word is barely a whisper, bitten off and reluctant and so unlike him that it sends a rush of heat through you so intense your vision blurs. “Please, baby, move faster, I need you to...”
You reward him by lifting your hips and slamming back down, hard and fast, and the sound he makes against your skin is close to a sob, his hips surging up to meet yours, the impact jolting through both of you. It doesn’t matter who has the upper hand now, not when yout bodies collapse together into something messier and more desperate, his hips snapping up to meet you with a forcefulness that rocks the entire car on its suspension, your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling the purple waves loose until they’re damp and clinging to his forehead.
The windows are completely fogged. The leather squeaks beneath your knees with every thrust and his hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs until they leave marks, cupping your breasts through the torn dress, dragging his nails down your spine hard enough to make you arch and cry out. His mouth is on your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast above the lace, biting and licking and sucking marks into your skin that you’ll have to cover tomorrow and not caring, neither of you caring.
“Wanna feel you cum,” he pants against your neck, his hand sliding between your bodies, enough for his thumb to flick at your aching nub, make your thighs shake so hard and the coil in your belly wind so tight it hurts. You really, really wanna cum, too. “C’mon, baby, let me feel it, wanna feel you squeeze around me... You’re so fucking tight, you’re so close, I can feel it...”
“Raf, I...” your voice breaks, nails digging into his shoulders until he hisses.
“I know.” his thumb presses harder, faster, his hips driving up into you in short sharp thrusts that hit so deep your vision whites out. “C’mon baby, won’t you cum for me? You said you wanted to help, so help me, yeah? Soak me..."
Who are you to refuse his syrupy words? You clench down around him in syncopated pulses as the orgasm rushes through you from the tip of your skull down to your toes where they curl. Mouth agape, you tip your head back as you keep riding your orgasm, tightening around his throbbing cock over and over again until he’s a moaning mess, too.
A cry rips from your throat when his palm slaps hard on your ass cheek, and he catches with his mouth, swallowing every broken sound as you clench and pulse around him, your thighs shaking and your fingers going numb in his hair. He fucks you through it, his hips stuttering, his rhythm breaking, and then his own release hits him with a full body shudder that you feel through the sound he makes against your lips.
The only sound is your breathing, ragged and tangled together, his chest heaving against yours, your heartbeats hammering in counterpoint.
You collapse against him, boneless, your face pressing into the crook of his neck where he smells like sweat and sex, so hypnotizing you can only nuzzle into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.
His fingers trace slow aimless patterns on your bare back, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath your cheek.
“We’re gonna be so late,” you mumble against his throat.
He turns his head and presses his lips to your temple, lingering there for a bit, breathing you in. You feel the curve of his smile against your skin, warm and satisfied and private, prompting a smile of your own against his neck.
“Gonna tell Thomas we hit traffic.”
You lift your head and look at him, his hair destroyed, his shirt hanging open and half off his shoulder, his lips swollen and red, his neck blooming with marks you don’t remember leaving, and his expression is the most self-satisfied thing you’ve ever witnessed on a living creature, that Rafayel signature grin that sits somewhere between angelic and absolutely insufferable. Which he kinda is right now, if you’re being honest with yourself.
“Raf. My dress is ripped in half and you tore my underwear.”
He blinks slowly and looks down at the ruined fabric pooling around your waist like he’s only just noticed. His lips purse. The absence of remorse on his face is extraordinary.
“Hmm.” he reaches past you to the front seat, fishing his jacket off the floor, and drapes it around your shoulders without breaking eye contact. Then he pulls his phone from the jacket pocket and thumbs it open one-handed while his other arm tightens around your waist, keeping you settled on his lap. “Thomas? Yeah, hey. Nah, we’re not gonna make it tonight. Something came up.”
You bury your face in his shoulder to smother the laugh that shakes your whole body and he pulls you closer, his fingers threading through your ruined hair, tracing the shell of your ear while Thomas’s tinny protests echo from the speaker.
“Blame my bodyguard.” he presses a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips curling against yours. “She’s very, very thorough.”
He hangs up before Thomas can respond and tosses the phone into the front seat. His hand settles warm on the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the top of your spine, and when you pull back to look at him.
“Wanna stay here for a bit?” he asks, voice all soft and sultry, “The harbor’s nice at night. I could sketch you like this.”
You flick his forehead.
He grins.
