I kissed him back and pressed up slightly as I trailed my fingers along the inside of his waistband, pulled them out and glided them down over his crotch.

He groaned and pressed his hardness into my hand.

I palmed him.

He growled and ground against me.

I panted against his lips and tightened my thighs against his hips, palming him harder, pressing and rubbing.

“Fuck, my hot little piece,” he grunted against my mouth, his thumb dragging hard against my nipple over my bra.

“Yes,” I forced out. “Hot,” I panted. “Joker,” I whimpered with need.

He slid his hand around my hip, down and through my wet.

That was my biker.

Always giving me what I needed.

I pressed into his hand and mewed.

He drove two fingers inside.

I arched, my head hit steel, my knees jerked up, and I moaned.

I felt Joker stay close but still move away, and I knew he was watching as his thumb rolled hard at my nipple, his other hand between my legs worked, fingers thrusting, thumb at my clit circling.

I grasped his hips with my thighs, rubbed his crotch with my hand as he ground into it, my other hand clutching at the flesh of his side, nails digging in.

At the same time, I rode his hand and whispered, “Baby, don’t stop.”

“Won’t, Butterfly, give me your show,” he growled.

I gave him what he wanted, writhing and squirming, arching and rocking, whimpering and mewing on top of his car as he worked me and watched.

Suddenly, my head jerked up and my eyes opened.

“Carson!” I cried, cupping his crotch hard, then my head fell back as the orgasm powered through me and I writhed and squirmed, arched and whimpered.

In the middle of it, I lost his hand but took his cock.

He was not gentle. He wasn’t slow. We weren’t making love.

We were fucking on his car.

I loved it.

Coming down, I worked with him as he pounded inside to build it back up, legs and hands, fingers and lips, mouth and tongue—his and mine.

Eventually, he demanded on a grunt and an inward drive, “Get there, Carrie.”

My hand in his hair fisted and I breathed, “I’m there, sweetheart.”

Then I was.

And he was.

On his fabulous car.

In a garage called Ride.

It was naughty.

It was amazing.

It was Joker.

And it was me.

* * *

The next evening, feeling Joker close, standing alert at my back as he was always even when he wasn’t in the same room with me (like he was then), I opened my front door.

I smiled bright and clapped my hands softly in front of me before I reached for my son in Aaron’s arms and said, “Hey there, Googly-Foogly.”

Travis twisted toward me, arms out, and I caught him, pulling him close, breathing in his scent, kissing the top of his head.