I have two options right now, but I don’t want to stop kissing him, so that brings me down to one. Beck’s domineering. Overwhelming. Clearly used to being the alpha. Just like during our shootout, I don’t let him.

We’re already careening down a decline, so I yank the brake stick and toss it out the figurative window. He tugs at my hair; I rake my nails across his back. He slips his hands up my dress; I unzip his pants. All the while, our tongues duel for dominance.

Adler Beck may be German, but he’s mastered the French kiss.

He’s already hard. Really fucking hard. Our brief, clothed interactions have never given me the impression Adler Beck has to compensate for anything, and I receive visual confirmation as I yank down his jeans. He’s huge. Hot. I run my fingers along the firm, silken shaft that’s prominently protruding between us, and Beck groans. His length jerks in my hold.

Skilled fingers find the evidence of my own desire, but I’m done prolonging what I hope is inevitable. I decided approximately two minutes ago I was going to fuck Adler Beck, and delaying that lost its appeal about ninety seconds ago. My right hand is still stroking the length of his pulsing cock, so I fish through my purse with my left to procure a foil packet. His dick is sheathed in seconds, and then I impale myself on it, shoving his fingers out of the way. I have a feeling he’s used to receiving compliments at this point. An “oh, your dick is so massive”, or a “will you even fit?” Those thoughts are absolutely running through my head, but I definitely don’t voice them.

My hands-on approach clearly catches Beck off guard, but he recovers quickly. Those same reflexes that blindside world-renowned defenders and send championship-winning goalies into fits of cursing make it clear anything I throw at Adler Beck will be tossed right back.

He might not have been expecting me to take control, but he’s ready once I do. Ready to challenge me. Thrusting. Kneading. Pulsating inside of me. Adler Beck and I are a blur of passionate, practiced movement. We’ve never done this before, but it feels like we have. Not in a tired, overdone way—in a he-knows-exactly-how-to-make-every-cell-of-my-body-reverberate-with-pleasure kind of way. Probably because he’s practiced with half the women in Europe.

Beck brushes that elusive bundle of nerves with every stroke. Sends shockwaves skittering across the surface of my skin. The words muttered in a German accent don’t hurt either. His syllables sound thicker when he’s aroused, and the hard—pun intended—evidence of that is rapidly sending me toward a very happy ending.