Page 169 of Something So Strong

At the intersection of the street where the van is parked, Jesse waits silently—eyes lidded and head tilted just enough the street lights reflect in them.

He holds out his hand. “Keys.” It’s demanding, possessive, and almost symbolic. My final chance to opt out before my penance begins.

Diving into my pocket, I pull out the soaked and dirty scarf he gave me and ball it in my hands. “I’m sorry it’s ruined.”

“Keep your apologies and give me the bloody keys.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and rub my tongue against the gathered flesh between my teeth.

He snatches the keys before they’re even fully out of my pocket and marches away, almost disappearing into the night before the next street light finds him again.

I jog to catch up, and as I do, he’s unlocking, then sliding open the side door of the van.

Without looking back, he shrugs off his coat, throws it into the back seat, and starts unbuckling his belt before even stepping inside.

This exact image has terrified me for as long as I can remember: A man, so hell bent on sexual gratification he’ll claim it by any means necessary. But instead of hyperventilating and completely shutting down, this time I’m a willing participant.

“Do you need help?”

Jesse’s head whips in my direction. “I don’t recall asking for it.” With one hand, he unbuttons the vintage Hilfigers I picked out and finally steps into the van.

“Get the fuck in here, Kai,” he demands. And when I do, he’s already sitting on the middle row with his jeans around his ankles—dick in his hand.

Saliva floods my mouth, and my bottom jaw drops slack.

“I won’t ask you twice.”

I toss the scarf next to him and tear at my jacket.

“You’ve got fifteen seconds to get in here and get naked or that mouth of yours won’t be getting filled.”

I gulp at his threat because I know it’s not empty, and slam the door shut so hard it may not open back up again. My sweater and undershirt are peeled off in one go and I almost fall over as I attempt to kick off my shoes and take my pants and underwear off at the same time.

Unable to stand properly, I settle on my knees and wait for further instructions, but the seconds tick by. On and on like a fucking lifetime as he just sits there, stroking that gorgeous cock of his. Watching me suffer—submissive and compliant. Hands on my thighs. Fingernails pressing into my palms.

This is truly the most euphoric form of torture.

The fear of being denied my pacification weighs so heavy I dare not move a single muscle.

I’m entranced, feeling every stroke as he swipes up and down. Nevertheless, he denies me the delight of being filled. Like having the most delicious food in my mouth without being allowed to swallow.

His pace builds and he slouches into the seat and rests his free arm along the back of it.

I know his signs. He’ll come soon if he doesn’t stop, and he might not be the only one.

My tongue creeps past my lips to hang out.

My fists slide from my legs to the van floor as I tentatively lean in.

Then he stops, squeezes his shaft, and hisses—the moon highlighting the pre-cum trickling from his tip.

His top lip curls and he growls, “Clean it.”

I’m gripping his thighs and opening wide before he takes it back.

“Uh-uh.”

I was too slow.

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