The morning light cuts through my blinds in golden stripes, and for the first time in days, I don't feel like hiding. I stretch across my bed, the sheets cool against my skin, and let myself smile. Mateo knows. Mateo sees me. And he stopped every single one of those girls.
I push myself up, the cotton of my sleep shirt catching on my nipples. Today, I'm taking my body back.
I stand in front of my closet, running my fingers across the hangers until I find it—the black string top I bought online months ago. It's barely anything. Two triangles of fabric connected by thin straps, a single string that ties at the back. My nipples will be covered. Just barely. The rest of me—the full curve of my breasts, the swell of my areolas—that's on display.
I pull it on, adjusting the triangles until they sit right. The string ties behind my back, and I feel the cool air hit my ribs. My reflection stares back at me. My nipples press against the thin fabric, dark circles visible through the edges. It's obscene. It's perfect.
Next, the shorts. The thong shorts. I pull them from the bottom drawer and step into them, the black material sliding up my thighs. They're cut like a thong in the back—just a narrow strip of fabric that disappears between my ass cheeks, my whole ass spilling out on either side. I turn, looking over my shoulder. My cheeks swallow the material, the string barely visible. I smack my own ass, watching it jiggle.
I'm back.
I run a brush through my hair, let it fall in dark waves over my shoulders. A swipe of gloss on my lips. That's it. That's all I need.
And then I hear it. The rumble of his motorcycle, low and familiar, pulling up outside my house. My heart kicks. I grab my bag, slide into my sandals, and head for the door.
The morning air hits my skin as I step outside, and I see him—Mateo, straddling that black bike, one boot on the ground, the other resting on the peg. His leather jacket is open, his white t-shirt stretched across his chest, the silver cross catching the light. His eyes find me, and he goes still.
I walk toward him slowly, letting my hips roll, feeling the weight of his stare. His jaw tightens. His eyes drop to my chest, then lower, then back up. He doesn't blink.
"Princesa." His voice is rough. "What the fuck are you wearing?"
I stop in front of him, close enough to smell the leather and smoke on his jacket. "Clothes."
"That's not clothes." He shakes his head, but his eyes don't leave me. "That's a string and a prayer."
I smile, running my hand along his handlebar. "You don't like it?"
He doesn't answer. He just looks at me—at the way my breasts spill out of the triangles, at the dark circles of my areolas visible at the edges, at the strip of fabric between my legs that disappears into my ass. His tongue runs along his bottom lip.
"Get on the bike."
I swing my leg over, settling behind him. My thighs press against his hips, my chest against his back. I feel the heat of him through his jacket. I wrap my arms around his waist, my hands landing on his stomach.
"Hold on," he says, and his voice is lower now, rougher.
The engine roars, and we pull away from the curb.
The ride to school is a blur of wind and heat and the feel of his body against mine. Every bump in the road presses me harder against him. I feel him tense. I feel his hand drop to my thigh, his fingers curling against the bare skin where my shorts end. He squeezes once, and I feel it between my legs.
We pull into the parking lot, and he cuts the engine. The silence rushes in. I stay pressed against his back for a second longer than I need to, then swing off the bike.
He doesn't move. He just sits there, both boots on the ground now, watching me. His eyes travel the length of me again, and something shifts in his face. Hunger. Barely leashed.
"You're trying to kill me," he says.
I tilt my head, letting my hair fall over one shoulder. "Am I?"
"You know what you're doing." He swings off the bike, standing close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes. "Walking around like that. Letting everyone see what's mine."
The word hits me low in my stomach. Mine.
"Yours?" I echo, my voice coming out breathier than I meant.
His hand comes up, his thumb brushing the edge of the triangle covering my left breast. His touch is light, barely there, but I feel it everywhere. "Mine."
I swallow. "Since when?"
"Since the first day you walked across this parking lot." His thumb traces the line of fabric, and my nipple hardens beneath it. "Since you told me your name. Since I called you Princesa and you didn't run."
His hand drops.
"Let's go. You're going to be late for class."
He starts walking, and I stand there for a second, my legs weak, my pussy aching. Then I follow him, my hips swaying with every step, knowing he's watching.
The hallways are crowded. Students part as we walk, and I feel their eyes on me—on the string across my chest, on my bare ass barely covered by the strip of fabric. Guys stare. Girls whisper. I don't care. I walk with my head high, my eyes fixed on the back of his head.
He stops at my locker, leaning against the one next to mine. "You have first period with me."
"I know."
"Good."
I spin my combination, pull open the door, and bend over to grab my textbook. I feel his eyes on my ass. I take my time. When I straighten, he's staring, his jaw tight.
"You're doing this on purpose," he says.
I smile, pressing my book against my chest. "Doing what?"
He steps closer, his body blocking me against the lockers. His hand comes up, bracing against the metal beside my head. "Making me want to drag you into the bathroom and fuck you against the sink."
My breath catches. "Mateo—"
"No." His voice is low, rough. "You wanted my attention. You've got it. But when I take you, Princesa, it's not going to be in a school bathroom. It's going to be somewhere I can take my time. Somewhere I can hear you scream my name."
He pushes off the locker and walks away, leaving me pressed against the metal, my thighs trembling, my cunt soaking through my thong.
I don't remember walking to class. I don't remember sitting down. But I'm there, in my seat, and he's three rows ahead, and I can't stop staring at the back of his head. The curve of his shoulders. The way his tattooed arm rests on the desk.
The teacher is talking. I don't hear a word.
At some point, Mateo turns. Looks at me. His eyes drop to my chest, and he smiles—slow, dangerous, knowing. Then he turns back around.
I press my thighs together. It doesn't help.
The bell rings, and I'm up before the echo fades, grabbing my bag, heading for the door. I need air. I need to breathe. I need to get my head straight before I do something stupid like climb him in the middle of the hallway.
I round a corner and almost walk straight into a group of guys. They stop, their eyes sweeping over me. One of them whistles.
"Damn, girl. You looking for something?"
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but before I can, a hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me back.
"She's taken."
Mateo's voice. Low. Final.
The guy holds up his hands, backing off. "Didn't know she was yours, Lobo."
"Now you do."
He pulls me down the hallway, his grip firm, his pace fast. He doesn't stop until we reach an empty stairwell. The door swings shut behind us, and the noise of the school fades to a hum.
He turns to face me, his chest rising and falling. His eyes are dark. "You can't walk around like that and not expect every guy in this school to try."
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can." He steps closer. "But I don't want to have to break someone's jaw because they couldn't keep their hands to themselves."
"Then break it." I lift my chin. "I'm not changing."
His eyes search mine. Then he laughs—a low, rough sound. "I wouldn't ask you to."
His hand comes up, his fingers brushing the string at my back. "This is you. The real you. And I love it."
Love. The word hangs in the air between us.
"Mateo—"
"I know." He cuts me off, his thumb tracing the line of my spine. "Too soon. I know. But I don't say things I don't mean."
I don't know what to say. I don't know how to handle the way he looks at me—like I'm something precious, something worth protecting, not just something worth fucking.
I step closer, my chest brushing his. "Then show me."
His hand slides to my waist, pulling me against him. His mouth finds my ear. "When I show you, Princesa, you won't be able to walk straight for a week."
I shiver.
He pulls back, his hand finding mine. "Come on. I'll walk you to your next class."
We walk out of the stairwell together, his fingers laced through mine. I feel eyes on us. I feel whispers. I don't care.
He stops at my classroom door, letting go of my hand. "I'll pick you up after school."
"Okay."
He leans in, his lips brushing my cheek. "Don't let anyone touch what's mine."
Then he's gone, walking down the hallway, his jacket stretched across his shoulders, his boots echoing against the tile.
I watch him until he disappears around a corner. Then I turn, walk into class, and sit down. My heart is pounding. My skin is hot. And between my legs, I'm wetter than I've ever been.
The rest of the day crawls. I don't hear a single word the teacher says. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face—the way his jaw tightened when he said mine, the heat in his voice when he warned me. My thighs are still pressed together under my desk, and it doesn't help. Nothing helps.
The final bell rings and I'm out of my seat before it stops echoing. I don't walk to my locker. I don't talk to anyone. I just head for the front doors, my heels clicking against the tile, my body humming with the need to see him.
He's there. Leaning against his bike, arms crossed, jacket stretched across his shoulders. The afternoon sun catches the silver cross at his throat, and his eyes find me the second I step outside. He doesn't move. He just watches me walk toward him, and I make sure every step counts.
"Princesa." His voice is low, rough, like he's been thinking about me all day too.
"Lobo." I smile, stopping in front of him. "You ready to take me home?"
He pushes off the bike, his hand finding my waist, pulling me against him. "Always."
The ride is short. His body is solid against mine, his arms wrapped around me, his chest at my back. I press my thighs into the seat and feel the vibration of the engine between my legs. It's not enough. It's never enough.
He drops me off at my house, killing the engine in the driveway. I climb off, and he follows, his boots hitting the concrete. He doesn't let me go inside. He pulls me into him, his hand sliding to the small of my back, his mouth finding mine.
The kiss is hard. Deep. His tongue slides against mine, and I taste him—coffee, something darker, something that makes my knees go weak. His other hand drops to my ass and squeezes, his fingers digging into the flesh through my shorts. I moan against his mouth.
"I have work," he says, pulling back, his forehead against mine. "Busy today. Gonna be late."
I frown. "How late?"
"Late enough." He kisses the corner of my mouth. "I'll text you."
He lets go, and I feel the absence like a wound. He swings back onto his bike, and I watch him ride away until he disappears around a corner. I stand there for a long moment, my body still burning, my cunt aching, my lips still tingling from his kiss.
An hour later, I can't take it anymore.
I'm pacing my room, my phone in my hand, his location shared from earlier. The shop's name is pinned on the map. Twenty minutes away. I look at myself in the mirror—the shirt I'm wearing, the shorts. It's not enough. I need to see him. I need to watch his face when he sees me.
I tear off my clothes and stand in front of my closet, my fingers trailing across the hangers. I pull out a string top—literally a string across my chest, two tiny triangles of fabric that barely cover my nipples. My areolas peek out from the edges. It's obscene. It's perfect.
Next, the jeans. Low-rise, ripped, the tears slicing across both ass cheeks. I step into them, shimmying them up my thighs. They sit so low on my hips that the waistband barely catches—they barely cover my pussy, just the cleft, the lips threatening to peek out. I pull on a black g-string, the thin straps riding high on my hips above the jeans, impossible to miss.
I look at myself in the mirror and smile. My tits are out, almost fully visible. My ass is spilling through the rips. My hips are bare, the g-string straps like arrows pointing down. I look like a walking wet dream.
I grab my keys and head out.
The drive is short. I pull into the lot of the auto shop—a concrete building with a rusted sign, garage doors open wide, the smell of oil and grease hitting me before I'm even out of the car. I step out, my heels clicking against the pavement, and every head in the lot turns.
I walk toward the front counter. There's a guy behind it—stocky, early thirties, a grease-stained shirt. His eyes go wide when he sees me. His mouth falls open. He doesn't even try to hide the way his gaze drops to my tits, then to my hips, then to my ass as I turn to lean against the counter.
"I need an oil change," I say, my voice sweet. "And I want him." I point toward the bay where I can see Mateo's back, bent over the hood of a car, his arms working, his muscles flexing under his tattoos.
The counter guy stutters. "Uh—I—yeah, I can—I'll ring you up—"
"Don't bother." I slide a twenty across the counter. "Just tell me where to find him."
He points toward the bay, his hand shaking. I smile, turn, and walk.
My heels click against the concrete floor. The sound echoes through the garage. A few other mechanics stop to stare. One whistles. Another mutters something in Spanish I don't catch. I don't care. My ass jiggles with every step, my tits bouncing free under the string top, and I know exactly what I look like.
I round the car Mateo's working on. He's got his back to me, his head under the hood, a wrench in his hand, his leather jacket discarded on a nearby tool cart. His shirt stretches across his shoulders, and I can see the sweat darkening the fabric between his shoulder blades.
I stop. I wait.
"Mateo."
He freezes. His hand stills on the wrench. Then he turns, slowly, and his eyes find me.
His face goes through it all. Confusion. Recognition. Then something else—something dark and hungry that makes my breath catch. His gaze drops to my tits, to the string across my chest, to the areolas visible at the edges. It drops lower, to my hips, to the g-string straps, to the rips in my jeans showing the curve of my ass.
He straightens up, his eyes locking onto mine. The wrench is still in his hand, but he's not holding it anymore—he's gripping it.
"Princesa." His voice is a growl.
"I needed an oil change." I smile, stepping closer. "Thought I'd request the best mechanic."
He sets the wrench down, slow, deliberate. Then he steps toward me, his boots heavy on the concrete. He doesn't stop until he's right in front of me, his chest inches from mine, his heat radiating over my skin.
"You're not wearing a bra." It's not a question.
"I never do."
His jaw tightens. His eyes drop to my tits again, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. "And this—" His hand gestures at the top, at the string. "This is new."
"Like it?"
He doesn't answer. His hand comes up, his thumb brushing the fabric, just barely, just enough to make my breath stutter. "You're gonna get me fired."
"Then let them fire you."
I step closer, my body pressing against his. I feel the hard planes of his chest, the tension in his muscles. His hand slides to my hip, fingers digging into the bare skin below the g-string strap.
"Everyone's watching," he says, his voice low, rough.
"I don't care."
His eyes search mine. Then he looks over my shoulder at the guys in the garage, and his expression shifts. His arm wraps around my waist, and he turns, pulling me with him, past the tool cart, past the car, into the back office. The door swings shut behind us.
The office is small. A desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, a window that looks out into the garage. He locks the door.
Then he turns to face me, his chest rising and falling, his eyes dark, his hands curling at his sides.
"What are you doing here, Val?"
"I told you. Oil change."
"Bullshit." He steps closer. "You came here to torture me."
I smile. "Is it working?"
He doesn't answer. His hand comes up, his fingers tracing the string at my chest, following it down to where it disappears into the triangle of fabric. "This is the sexiest thing I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His thumb brushes the edge of the fabric, just barely grazing my nipple through it. I suck in a breath. "You came here in this, knowing I'd lose my mind, didn't you?"
"Maybe." I step closer, my chest brushing his. "Maybe I needed to see you. Maybe I couldn't wait until tonight."
His other hand finds my ass, gripping the bare flesh through the rip in my jeans. "You're going to be the death of me, Princesa."
"Good."
He leans in, his mouth finding my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "When I get you home tonight, I'm going to take this string off with my teeth. I'm going to put my mouth on every inch of your body. I'm going to make you forget your own name."
I shiver. My cunt clenches. The wetness is already there, soaking through my g-string, and I know he can see it in my eyes.
"Then don't make me wait," I whisper.
He pulls back, his dark eyes burning into mine. He takes a breath, steadying himself. Then he steps back, his hands dropping to his sides, and he unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off. He drapes it over my shoulders.
"Put this on," he says, his voice rough. "Unless you want every guy out there to see what's mine."
I slide my arms into the shirt. It smells like him—sweat, cologne, the warmth of his skin. It falls past my hips, covering the top, the g-string straps still visible below the hem.
"Better?" I ask, teasing.
He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "No. But it'll have to do."
He unlocks the door and opens it, gesturing for me to go first. I step out into the garage, his shirt loose around my body, the fabric brushing my thighs. The other mechanics look up, then look away, pretending they weren't watching.
Mateo follows, his bare torso still glistening with sweat, his tattoos on full display. He picks up a new shirt from his bag and pulls it on, but I see the way his hands shake as he buttons it.
He walks me to my car, his hand on my lower back, his touch burning through his shirt. "Go home, Princesa. I'll be done in two hours."
"I actually do need an oil change."
He stops, his hand still warm on my back, and looks at me. Something flickers in his dark eyes—surprise, amusement, something hungrier. He sighs, running his hand through his slicked-back hair, and holds out his palm. "Give me the keys, Princesa."
I drop them into his hand, my fingers brushing his callused skin. He closes his fist around them, and I see the muscles in his forearm flex, the ink shifting under the fluorescent lights.
"Lobby," he says, jerking his chin toward the glass door. "There's coffee. Magazines. Don't cause trouble."
"Me? Never."
He shakes his head, but there's a ghost of a smile on his lips as he turns toward the bay where my car sits, hood already up.
I push through the lobby door. The AC hits me, stale and cold, and I take in the space—a few worn armchairs, a coffee table stacked with issues of Car and Driver from three years ago, a machine gurgling something that might be coffee. The whole front wall is glass, floor-to-ceiling, looking straight into the garage. Every bay visible. Every mechanic visible.
His coworkers are visible too.
Three of them. One mid-thirties with a beer gut and a smirk. Two younger, my age maybe, grease on their forearms, eyes already tracking me as I walk to the chair closest to the glass. I feel their stares like a physical weight, even through the shirt he draped over me. Even through the fabric, they're looking at my thighs, at the curve of my hips, at the g-string straps still visible below the hem.
I sit. Cross my legs. Let one foot swing.
The older one says something I can't hear, and the younger ones laugh. Not mean. Nervous. Like they don't know what to do with what they're seeing.
Mateo is under my car now, on his back, a wrench in his hand. I watch him through the glass. The way his arms move, the muscles flexing, the tattoos twisting as he works. Sweat glistens on his forearms. His shirt has ridden up just enough that I can see the strip of skin above his belt, the trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband.
My thighs press together. The wetness is already there, a slow pulse between my legs.
One of the younger mechanics walks past him, says something, and Mateo's head turns. He looks through the glass at me. Just a glance. But I see his jaw tighten.
I stand. Walk to the glass. Press my palm flat against it.
His eyes follow my hand. Then my face. I don't look away.
He sets the wrench down and gets to his feet, wiping his hands on a rag. He walks toward the lobby door, and I feel the other mechanics watching him, watching me, watching the space between us shrink.
The door swings open. He steps through, the rag still in his hand, his dark eyes fixed on mine. "You need something, Princesa?"
"Yeah." I tilt my head. "Are you ashamed of me?"
His brow furrows. "What?"
"Ashamed." I gesture at myself, at the shirt covering my body. "You put this on me. You made me cover up. Like you don't want anyone to see what's yours."
He blinks. His mouth opens, then closes. I watch the realization hit him—the weight of what he did, what it looked like, what it meant. His eyes drop to the shirt, to his own fabric hanging off my shoulders, and I see the guilt flicker across his face before he masks it.
"No," he says, his voice low. "That's not—I didn't—"
"Then why am I wearing it?"
He doesn't answer. His jaw works. His hand tightens on the rag.
I reach up and pull the shirt off, one shoulder at a time, slow enough that he has to watch. The fabric slides down my arms, pools at my feet, and I'm standing there in nothing but my g-string and the string across my chest, my breasts bare, my nipples hardening in the cold lobby air. The areolas show, dark and full, and I see his eyes drop to them, linger, then drag back up to my face.
"I'll be waiting," I say, and I turn, walking back to the chair, feeling his stare on my bare back, on the curve of my ass where the g-string disappears between my cheeks. The younger mechanic through the glass has stopped working entirely. His mouth is slightly open.
I sit. Cross my legs. Pick up a magazine I have no intention of reading.
Mateo doesn't move for a long moment. Then he bends, picks up the shirt, and walks back into the garage without looking at me.
But I see the way his shoulders are tense. The way his fists clench at his sides.
I watch him work. Every movement is sharper now, faster, like he's burning off something he can't name. He drains the old oil, replaces the filter, checks the levels. His biceps flex. His back muscles shift under his shirt. Sweat darkens the fabric between his shoulder blades, and I feel the heat pooling between my thighs, soaking the g-string, making me slick and hungry.
The older mechanic walks past him again, and I hear him say something—"Lucky bastard"—and Mateo's head snaps up. He says something back, low and sharp, and the older man raises his hands in mock surrender and walks away.
I smile.
He finishes the oil change. He's wiping his hands on a rag, about to signal me, when I stand and walk toward the glass. He watches me approach. I stop at the door that connects the lobby to the garage, but I don't open it. I just wait.
He sighs, tosses the rag, and walks over, pushing through the door. "It's done, Princesa. You're good to go."
"Already?" I pout. "That was fast."
"I'm good at what I do."
"I know." I step closer. "I've seen what you can do with your hands."
His eyes darken. His jaw tightens. "Val."
"What?" I'm all innocence. "I'm just saying—"
My phone slips from my fingers, clattering to the concrete floor. I gasp, a little too loud, a little too theatrical. "Oops."
I bend over. Slowly. Arching my back, feeling the stretch in my hamstrings, letting the g-string ride up, letting my ass rise and spread. The concrete is cold under my palms. I look back at him through the gap between my legs.
He's staring at my ass. His hands are fists at his sides. His chest is rising and falling faster than it should be.
I feel the g-string shift against my cunt, the fabric soaked and pressing against my clit. I know he can see it. The wet spot darkening the thin material. The way my lips grip the fabric as I move.
I pick up the phone and straighten, turning to face him. His eyes are burning. His nostrils are flared.
"Found it," I say, my voice breathless.
He growls. A real growl, low in his chest. "You're going to get us both in trouble."
"I'm not in trouble." I step closer. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
He looks over my shoulder, at the other mechanics. The younger ones are pretending to work, but I catch them glancing. The older one is leaning against a tool chest, watching with open amusement.
Mateo's jaw tightens again. He takes a breath. Then he walks to the main garage door and pulls it down, the metal rattling as it seals us in. He does the same to the second bay door, then the third. The lobby door he locks from the inside.
The other mechanics stop pretending. The older one straightens, a question on his face. "Yo, Mateo—"
"Night," Mateo says, his voice flat. "Clock out."
The younger ones exchange a look, grab their bags, and head for the back exit. The older one hesitates, looking at me, then at Mateo, then shakes his head and follows them.
The door clicks shut behind them.
We're alone.
The garage hums with silence. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A car on the lift drips oil onto the concrete in slow, measured drops.
Mateo stands by the door, his back to me, his hands pressed flat against the metal. I see his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. Then he turns.
His eyes find mine. Dark. Hungry. Finally unguarded.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he says, his voice rough, almost broken.
"Show me."
He crosses the garage in three steps, his boots loud on the concrete. He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell him—sweat and oil and something darker, something male. His hand comes up, his knuckles brushing the curve of my breast, tracing the underside, not quite touching my nipple.
"You walked in here like you owned the place," he says, his voice low. "You made me lose my mind in front of my guys. You took off my shirt and dared me to do something about it."
"And?"
"And now I'm going to do something about it."
His hand slides behind my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, and he pulls me close. His mouth finds mine, hard and hungry, and I taste the salt on his lips, feel the scrape of his stubble, the press of his body against mine. His other hand drops to my ass, gripping the bare flesh, fingers digging in, and I moan into his mouth.
He pulls back, breathing hard. "My car. Now."
"No." I shake my head, and I see the confusion flash across his face. I smile, slow and wicked, and step past him, walking toward the bay where my car sits, the hood still up. "I want you right here."
I stop at the side of the car. I hear him follow, his footsteps heavy, his breathing ragged. I bend over the hood, arching my back, letting my ass press against the fabric of his jeans. I feel his cock, hard and thick, pressing into me through the denim, and I push back against it.
"Right here," I whisper again.
His hand slams onto the hood beside mine, and he leans over me, his mouth at my ear. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Good."
His hands find the string across my chest. He traces it with his fingers, following it from my shoulder to the triangle of fabric that barely covers my nipple. He doesn't pull it aside. He just touches it, circles it, lets his thumb brush the edge of the fabric where my nipple strains against it.
I'm trembling. Dripping. The g-string is soaked through, and I know he can feel the heat radiating from my cunt.
He tugs the string. It falls loose, and I feel the air hit my breasts, feel them swing free, heavy and full. His hands cup them from behind, his callused palms rough against my sensitive skin, his fingers finding my nipples, pinching gently, tugging.
I gasp. My hips press back against him.
"You like that, Princesa?" His voice is a growl against my ear.
"Yes."
"Tell me what you want."
I turn my head, meeting his eyes. "I want you to fuck me right here, on this car, until I forget my own name."
His eyes go dark. His hands tighten on my breasts. I feel his cock twitch against my ass, and I know he's as desperate as I am.
"Get on the car," he says.
I climb onto the hood, the cold metal shocking against my bare thighs. I lie back, the hood still warm from the engine, and look up at him. He stands over me, his chest heaving, his eyes tracing every inch of my body. The string across my chest is loose, hanging at my sides. The g-string is the only thing I'm wearing, and it's barely there.
He reaches down, his hand sliding up my thigh, his fingers finding the wet fabric. He traces the outline of my cunt through it, feeling the slick heat, and I moan, my hips lifting into his hand.
"So wet," he murmurs. "So fucking wet for me."
"Always."
He hooks his finger under the g-string and pulls it aside. The cold air hits my cunt, and I shiver, my legs falling open. He looks at me, laid out on the hood, bare and wet and waiting, and I see the raw hunger in his eyes.
He drops to his knees.