WET CONFESSIONS

I'd always wondered what his hands would feel like without the gloves.

Day in, day out, Nolan wore them. Sleek, black leather over fingers I imagined were rough from work and discipline. His jaw stayed tense, his eyes never lingered too long, and his voice when he rarely spoke was firm and low enough to ruin me.

He was thirty-eight. Stoic. Private. My father's chauffeur for six years.

I was twenty-one. Barely allowed to drink, let alone climb into the front seat with the man I had undressed with my eyes since I was sixteen.

Tonight, I climbed in anyway.

It started with my voice. Whispered and syrupy, a little too close to his ear as I leaned forward from the backseat.

"Drive the long way."

His eyes flicked up to the mirror. A pause.

"Yes, Miss Arden."

Miss Arden. My last name. Cold. Detached. That mask he wore like skin.

I wasn't wearing any underwear. And my dress was tight cut just high enough that if I crossed my legs the wrong way, he'd notice.

And I wanted him to.

Ten minutes into the drive, with the rain coming down and city lights streaking the windows, I pressed my thighs together and whispered again.

"You always keep both hands on the wheel, Mr. Nolan?"

"I'm paid to keep them there."

I smiled. "But what if I asked you to use them somewhere else?"

A sharp inhale. No answer.

I reached forward again. Fingers grazing his shoulder.

"You ever wanted to touch something you weren't supposed to?"

"Every fucking day," he muttered, finally meeting my eyes in the mirror.

Then he swerved off the main road. No hesitation. No questions. Just heat.

We stopped under an overpass, engine humming.

The rain hammered down above us.

He turned to me slowly, face unreadable but his eyes dark with decision.

"I lose my job for this."

"I won't tell," I whispered, crawling into the front seat, into his lap.

He caught me by the waist, hard and fast, like he'd been starving for years.

His mouth crushed mine.

No pretense. No buildup.

Just raw, pent up lust that shattered any line we were pretending to stay behind.

"I've watched you grow into a little fucking tease," he growled, hand under my dress already. "Parading around without panties? You wanted me to see."

"I wanted you to touch."

He hooked a finger inside me deep.

"Goddamn. You're soaked."

"All for you."

Then he lifted me slightly, pushed his pants down just enough, and let his cock slap against my bare heat. Thick. Heavy. Already dripping pre cum.

"Fuck," I gasped. "You're huge."

He didn't respond. Just aligned himself and slid inside in one long, punishing thrust.

I arched. Cried out.

"Shh," he whispered against my throat. "Unless you want the cops to find us like this."

That only made it hotter.

He bounced me on his cock like the car was his bed my hands braced on the dashboard, my moans muffled by his shoulder.

He grabbed my throat firm but not too tight forcing my eyes to his.

"I used to imagine your legs spread in the backseat."

"You mean like this?" I reached behind, spread myself wider. "Wetter now?"

He groaned. Bit my lip. And thrust harder.

I came fast clenching around him, body twitching.

He didn't stop.

Pulled out.

Spun me around.

Bent me over the center console and shoved back in.

"Now I fuck you like you begged for it."

He was feral. Focused. Pounding into me while gripping my hair with one hand and pressing the other to the foggy windshield for leverage.

I couldn't see. Couldn't speak.

Just felt.

Hot, wet, full.

When he came, he didn't pull out. He just buried himself deep, groaning like it physically hurt to stop.

His seed filled me in slow, pulsing waves.

Silence followed.

Heavy. Breathless.

I collapsed against the seat. Shaking. Satisfied.

He adjusted himself. Reached for his gloves again.

"You say one word of this"

"I'll be in the backseat tomorrow," I interrupted, smiling. "No panties."