The car was parked in the dark. Engine still warm, headlights off. Outside, only damp air and the sound of rain on the roof. Inside, the heat pressed in. Breath. Tension.
Leonor lit a cigarette. Took two slow drags, eyes on the window. She didn’t look at him directly — but she felt him.
He sat with his legs open, leaning back in the driver’s seat. One hand on his thigh. The other still on the wheel, like he was still in control.
— Get down — he said. His voice was dry, low, flat.
She didn’t answer. Just crushed the cigarette against her shoe, turned to face him, and dropped to her knees between the seats. No ceremony. No question.
When the zip came down, the smell hit her — sweat, skin, something salty and alive. She leaned in. Her breath caught in her throat.
— Suck it — he said, hand on the back of her head.
And she did.
No mercy. No fake softness. Mouth hot, movements sharp, rhythm steady. Wet sounds filled the space — lips working, breath shortening, seat creaking under the shift of weight.
His fingers gripped her hair tighter. Not guiding — anchoring.
She worked with purpose. Tongue sliding, lips tightening, pace shifting just enough to draw breath through his teeth. He whispered something. Her name maybe. Maybe not. Didn’t matter.
The tension built fast. She felt it in his thighs, in the tremble of his grip, in the way his hips met her mouth harder, faster. The car fogged up completely.
When he came, he didn’t speak. Just exhaled like he’d been holding it for days. She stayed there, mouth full, letting him pulse against her tongue until the grip eased.
Then she pulled back, wiped her mouth with her wrist, zipped him up without a word.
Sat back in the seat and smiled — not sweet, not coy. Just sure.
— You give good orders — she said. — But you follow even better.
Then opened the door and stepped into the cold.
