Wilted Bloom

Shota moved his hand out of hers with deliberate slowness, his fingers trailing away only to find a new path, one that had Maya's breath hitching in anticipation. His touch was featherlight at first, just a casual glide over the fabric of her thigh, but it was purposeful, teasing. His hand pressed firmer as he slid it higher, his calloused fingers kneading the soft skin beneath his palm. He smirked when he felt the way her thighs tensed, the way she shifted slightly in her seat, a subtle but unmistakable reaction to him, to this, to the way he knew exactly how to unravel her without saying a single word.

The corner of his mouth curled as he focused on the road ahead, his expression unreadable, yet his hand remained, his fingertips dancing higher, pushing the edge of her dress up ever so slightly. He was taking his time, and that—that was what made her squirm. He knew she was impatient, knew that after everything—the stress, the exhaustion, the sheer emotional whirlwind—this was what she needed, what she wanted. And yet, he refused to give it to her so easily.

Maya let out a small, frustrated whimper, her fingers gripping the side of the seat, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. "Shota..." she murmured, the name slipping from her lips like a plea, but he didn't answer. Instead, he let his thumb trace lazy circles along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, slow and methodical, just enough to drive her insane without actually giving her what she wanted.

His smirk deepened, his voice low and smooth as he finally broke the silence. "Patience," he murmured, amusement laced in every syllable. "You're always so impatient, kitten."

Maya's body reacted instantly to the nickname, her thighs squeezing together instinctively, trapping his hand between them, but Shota merely hummed in approval, his fingers flexing against the heat of her skin.

"You wanna keep me from moving?" he mused, his voice nothing but pure, wicked amusement. "That's fine. I like a challenge."

And just like that, his hand twitched, his fingers curling just barely at the edge of where she needed him most, just enough to make her jolt in the seat, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet hum of the car.

Her nails dug into the seat, her resolve crumbling with each teasing, torturous stroke. "Shota, please..." she whispered, her voice trembling with frustration, desperation, need.

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through her, his lips twitching into something dark and victorious. "Say it properly," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over her clothed core, feeling the heat radiating through the fabric. "Say what you really want."

Maya swallowed hard, her head falling back against the seat as her thighs twitched open slightly, giving him more room, giving in—and fuck, that was exactly what he wanted. "Please, Daddy..." she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough.

Shota groaned softly, his restraint slipping, his fingers pressing just a bit firmer, just enough to feel how soaked she was through the thin fabric. "That's my good girl," he muttered, his voice rough, his free hand gripping the steering wheel way too tightly. "But don't think I'm gonna let you have it so easy, kitten. We've got a long drive home... and I'm enjoying this.*"

And just like that, he moved his hand away completely, leaving her breathless, frustrated, and utterly at his mercy. The bastard had the audacity to smirk as he kept driving, his eyes forward, his expression calm, as if he hadn't just left her aching for him.