Paper and Asphalt (Part 3)

You were shaking.

Not violently. Not enough for the world to see.

But I felt it. Through denim. Through skin.

Your thighs strained against my grip, tight, trembling, betraying you with every twitch. Your breath stuttered each time I let my lips drag slow along the inseam, the coarse fabric rasping under my mouth as I traced the line that kept me from you.

You watched.

Eyes fixed on the mask, on the curve of my mouth moving over your jeans- following every deliberate pass, every pause at the seam where heat pooled thickest.

I pressed harder, lips grazing, teeth catching on denim like I could bite through and take what you were already giving me. The vibration of it shuddered up your legs, and you gasped, helpless, knowing exactly how soaked you were without me even needing to check.

I lifted my head, jaw tight, heat rolling off me like smoke from a fire barely contained.

“Still holding?”

You nodded. Small. Fragile. Shaking with the lie your body couldn’t keep.

Brave.

But I could see it in your eyes- you were right there. Teetering on the edge. Wanting, needing, to let go and beg for more.

And I hadn’t even touched you skin-to-skin.

My hands spread your knees wider. Not roughly. Reverently. Like I was preparing a meal I had waited months to taste.

“You know,” I murmured, letting my mouth brush the button of your jeans, “I can almost taste you through these.”

Your breath hitched hard. Fingers clutched the seat beneath you.

Your head snapped down to meet my eyes.

“Remeber,” I said, licking slow along the fabric now, “hold it in, until I tell you. Until I make you. Until I let you come.”

A sound slipped out of you- gutted. Wordless. Like it hurt.

I smiled.

Because it should.

This was the difference between fiction and me. Between book boyfriends and the man kneeling in front of you.

They want to please.

I want to own.

My hands slid up, under your shirt, gloves rough on your stomach as I tasted you again- tongue dragging hard and slow over denim soaked with your want.

I looked up and whispered, “You’re dripping through the fabric.”

You whimpered. Bit your lip. Your hips rocked once, and it was once too many.

I pulled back instantly.

“You do that again and I’ll make you sit here, soaked and shaking, while I ride the bike in front of you until you’re crying for it.”

You froze.

I stood.

I towered.

And I gripped your chin between two fingers, firm enough to make your breath stop in your throat.

“You stay still until I allow you to let go,” I said. “Understand?”

“Fine,” you whispered.

“No.” My fingers dug in, just enough to sting. “Let’s try that again.”

“Yes, sir.”

That. That earned you something.

I took your mouth like a claim.

Dragged mine across yours- deep, slow, ruthless. Nothing sweet. Nothing soft. My gloved hand knotted in your hair, tilting your head back until you felt every ounce of restraint I was still holding.

You whimpered against me, lips parting, desperate, and I swallowed the sound. My teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging until you gasped, until your body arched like it couldn’t decide if it wanted escape or more.

You tried to chase it when I pulled away, mouth seeking mine, breath ragged with need.

And I let you feel the loss- hovering just out of reach, making your lips tremble for what I had already given and refused to give again.

I gripped your thighs again, hands sliding over denim, thumbs pressing hard along the inside where I knew the pulse was frantic.

“I want you trembling,” I growled. “I want you aching so badly the next time I so much as look at you, you beg to fall to your knees.”

Your spine arched, your body pushing against the bike.

And then- I stopped.

Stepped back.

Left you wide-eyed and nearly panting on the bike.

Untouched.

Ruined.

“You did well,” I said, dragging my gloves off finger by finger. “But next time?”

I walked around you slowly, like a predator deciding when to lunge.

“Next time, I unzip you. And you keep reading.”

I picked the book up from the ground. Wiped the dirt off with my palm.

“You’ll read it while I’m inside you.”

You trembled.

I leaned in, lips brushing your ear one last time.

“And if you stop? If you drop the book? If you so much as falter.”

My smile turned savage.

“I’ll start over. And you’ll hold it in all over again.”

I caught your wrist, guiding you off the bike- no struggle, no effort. Your legs barely remembered how to stand, trembling as your back hit the brick again. The book clutched to your chest like penance, like proof.

I slid the helmet back over my head, visor snapping down to erase everything but my eyes. Then I swung onto the seat, the machine snarling to life beneath me.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

I throttled once, the roar tearing through the alley, shaking the ground under your feet- and then I was gone.

Left you standing there.

Frustration twisting in your chest, fury at how easily I could ruin you and leave you starving in the silence.

But you held the book tighter anyway.

Because this was the deal. One day at a time. One command at a time.

Too soaked to move.

Too wrecked to speak.

And already waiting for the next page I’d let you turn.

The next day, you brought the book.

Didn’t even try to hide it this time.

No bag. No drink. Just you, standing there with it clutched tight in both hands.

You waited in the alley behind the cafe, the hum of the city spilling just beyond the corner. 

When I pulled up, the engine growled low, shaking the walls. I cut the ignition, swung my leg over, and stood. Helmet tilting down toward you.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

I lifted my helmet off- slow, deliberate, and set it aside. The mask stayed on just like before, black and seamless, my eyes the only thing you were allowed to see.

That book in your grip, your knuckles grew white around the spine. Like your fingers were the only thing keeping the pages from falling apart entirely.

Like you were the story- pages straining, cover splitting, and you were about to crack wide open.

I paused for just a moment. I took my time dragging my eyes over you.

Throat.

Chest.

Stomach.

The way your thighs pressed together pretending they could contain it.

“Page?” I asked, voice low enough to crawl inside your spine.

You swallowed. “Sixty-seven.”

I took the book from your trembling hand and flipped it open. Found the page without needing to look twice.

Then I read it aloud- slow, steady, deadly. 

“He pushed her- me down onto the seat of the bike, one hand tangled in my hair, the other sliding between my thighs- ”

I closed the book.

Met your eyes.

“Get on. Just like she did.” I said raising the book.

You didn’t hesitate.

Not this time.

You straddled the bike like it was a throne. Leather already hot from the sun, hotter from what you were about to become.

You leaned into the tank, and put your hands on the bars, like you had done it a thousand times in your dreams, in the dark with your fingers buried between your legs.

I climbed on behind you.

Close. Too close.

My thighs locked around yours, pinning you against the machine, my chest pressed to your back until you could feel the heat rolling off me in waves.

Every inch of me was there- hard, unyielding, ruthless. A single grind against the curve of your ass like punishment and promise in one.

I held the book in front of you.

Your grip on the bars faltered, knuckles tightening before you finally let go. Fingers peeling back slow, reluctant, like you knew surrender lived in the space between.

Both hands lifted, trembling, reaching for what I offered. The book wavered when it touched your palms, pages trembling as if they already knew what was coming.

I caught your wrist, steadying it with leather-clad control, pressing the weight of the book back into your hands. Forcing you to hold it. Forcing you to obey.

The command followed, low and rough against your ear.

“Read.”

Heat flared sharp through your body at that single word, flooding you, making your breath stutter as the leather groaned beneath you.

Your hands trembled as you opened to the page, but your voice- fuck me. Little did you know, your voice was already breaking me.

Breathless. Starving.

“She- I moaned when his fingers pressed into me through the fabric-”

My gloved hand slid between your thighs, cupped the heat I knew was waiting for me.

You gasped. Hips jolting forward.

But I didn’t push harder. Not yet. “Keep going.”

“He teased me through the denim, slow and cruel, until I was panting into the night air- ”

And I did. Slow. Circular.

Cruel.

I pressed my palm in a rhythm that made your legs twitch. Your body leaned back into mine without thinking- needing.

You fell silent.

I caught your jaw with my free hand. Held you steady against my shoulder.

“You stop reading,” I said, voice hot and vicious, “I stop touching.”

Your fingers clutched the pages like you were holding onto the last piece of reality.

“He lifted me effortlessly, turning me to face him, pushing my back into the bars as I sat on the tank-”

The words weren’t finished before my hands closed around you.

And just as the book commanded, I pulled you up- effortless. Like you weighed nothing. Like you were mine to move, to place, to use.

Your breath caught as the ground slipped away, as you felt the sheer strength in me for the first time. Not imagined. Not written. Real. Absolute.

In a blink, your back hit the bars, your body perched on the tank, facing me. The book trembled in your hands, but I didn’t falter. Didn’t strain.

You realized then- just now, how strong I was. How easily I could hold you. How impossible it was to resist when I decided where you belonged.

“He ran his hands up, lifting my shirt, and kissed down my skin-”

The line trembled off your lips just as my glove caught the hem of your shirt.

With my free hand, I lifted the mask just enough. Revealing on my mouth.

Fabric rose beneath my hands, baring skin to the night air. And then my lips were there- hot, unyielding, and dragging from just beneath your breast down the slope of your stomach until they pressed at the waist of your jeans.

The page was no longer fiction.

The fantasy you dog-eared was no longer safe between covers.

It was happening.

It was real.

And your body shuddered with the ruin of it.

You fought yourself to keep reading.

 “He found my zipper with his teeth and pulled down-”

The words broke, fragile on your tongue, but you pushed through. And fuck, I was proud. So very proud.

I lowered my mouth to the button of your jeans, teeth catching, tongue tracing the metal like the book itself had scripted me. The sound of your breath stuttered above me, jagged, as your elbows slid back against the tank- propping you up, giving me space you swore you wouldn’t.

And then- your hips lifted. Just slightly. Just enough.

A surrender dressed as instinct.

My hands closed at your waist, dragging denim down inch by inch. Each tug revealing more flushed skin, trembling under the night air.

And there- your underwear. Soaked through. A confession I didn’t need you to voice, written wet and undeniable across the fabric.

I let my breath wash over the heat between your thighs. “You held last time.”

You nodded frantically, voice breaking apart. “Yes- yes.”

“Not this time.”

I bent lower, deliberate, cruel, and let my tongue press flat against you. Over the fabric you had already ruined, the barrier that only made you ache more.

Slow.

So slow.

I dragged upward, from the soaked entrance that throbbed for me, up the full length of your seam, until I pressed hard against your clit through the fabric. My tongue stayed there, grinding, pushing into you as if the thin cotton was nothing, as if I could taste everything through it anyway.

You shattered.

Your whole body jerked, spine arching, hips desperate to chase more friction.

My hands shot to your thighs. Leather tightening, locking you down. Pinned.

Held.

Forced to take it exactly how I gave it.

“You’re going to come for me,” I growled into you. “Loud. Messy. And twice.”

“Tw- twice- ?”

You were already breathless. Already twitching.

I didn’t answer.

My mouth didn’t relent.

Tongue, lips, teeth- every part of me working mercilessly, branding you, carving myself into your body like a mark no one else could touch.

Then my hand moved. Slow. Intentional.

Fingers hooked the edge of your underwear, tugging it aside, baring you to the night.

Skin to skin, finally.

No more barrier. No more mercy.

You tasted like heat. Like sin. Like the same words you had traced with trembling fingers in the dark, now dragged into flesh and breath.

Your hands clawed at the tank, metal shrieking under your nails. Your thighs shook, trying to close around my head, but I held you open- leather biting into your skin, pinning you in place while I ruined you.

“You feel that?” My voice rumbled against your cunt, every word vibrating through you. “That’s me. That’s mine. Don’t fight it.”

You gasped, broken, your body already bowing, already begging in ways your mouth couldn’t.

“Let go for me.” My tongue pressed harder, slower, relentless, circling and dragging until I knew you couldn’t hold back. “Now. Let go for me.”

Your hips jerked, helpless, chasing every stroke as if your body had been waiting its whole life for this permission. Your voice fractured on my name, torn from your throat raw and desperate, spilling into the night.

And then it broke.

Then you broke.

The orgasm ripped through you violent, devastating, a scream swallowed down your spine. Your legs trembled against my grip, your whole body shuddering as I held you wide and made you ride it until you couldn’t breathe.

But I didn’t stop.

Didn’t give you a second to breathe.

My mouth stayed locked to you, ruthless, relentless- tongue pressing harder, lips sealing tighter, every movement designed to tear the control right out of you.

Your cries fractured, broke down into ragged sobs that weren’t words anymore, just sounds- raw and desperate.

You tried to twist, tried to fight the flood building inside you, but my grip held your thighs open, leather biting into your skin, denying you the chance to escape.

“Take it,” I growled against you, voice vibrating into your cunt. “Every fucking second of it.”

And you did.

You had no choice.

The wave hit you like violence.

Harder. Sharper.

Your body convulsed, jerking against the tank, legs trembling so violently they nearly buckled. Breath gone, throat raw, pulse crashing against the inside of your wrists like it was trying to escape your skin.

I didn’t let up. Not even as your body shattered. Not even as you went slack, limp in my hold.

You collapsed forward, cheek pressed to the tank, trembling so hard you could barely keep upright until I caught you- hands steady, holding you there, keeping you from sliding into nothing while I owned the ruin I’d made of you.

And then, I pulled back, dragging my mouth away only to press a kiss against the inside of your thigh.

Not soft. Not tender.

A brand. Reverent in the way only destruction deserves. Final and absolute.

I lifted my head slowly, unhurried, watching you crumble against the tank- wrecked, bare, trembling in my grip. My eyes drank in every shiver, every broken breath.

And I smiled.

Proud.

Like a man admiring his work.

Like I had crafted you into exactly what I wanted- undone, obedient, mine.

“I told you,” my voice rasped through the mask, steel wrapped in hunger.

“You don’t just read a story like this.”

I leaned in against you, the weight of me still caging you against the machine, the promise sliding into your bones like a knife.

“You become it.”

 

 

 

-Gambit