Daniel Garrett: They Took Her From Me

Chapter 2: Kat

He reached in front of me, gripping the sleek car door handle and pulling it open with an ease that made my breath hitch. It wasn’t exactly a limousine, but it wasn’t just a regular car either. It was something in between—polished, expensive, and undeniably luxurious. The kind of car that turned heads but didn’t scream for attention. Just like him.

I crouched down, stepping inside, fully aware that my dress was riding up with the movement. The fabric clung to my thighs, the hem creeping dangerously high, and judging by the sharp hiss he let out behind me, he had definitely noticed. A smirk played on my lips as I settled into the smooth leather seat.

The air inside was cool, laced with the faint scent of leather and something distinctly masculine—dark spice, musk, a hint of something woodsy. It was intoxicating, and I inhaled deeply, letting it settle into my senses.

I glanced at the front seat and noticed a man sitting there, dressed in a sharp black suit. He was poised, professional, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel as he waited for instruction.

The setup reminded me of Lydia and Leon—her ever-present driver and protector, always waiting to whisk her away at a moment’s notice.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked, his tone smooth and respectful, as if he had done this routine a hundred times before.

I turned my head just as the deliciously dangerous man slid into the seat next to me, his massive frame making the spacious backseat feel much, much smaller.

He didn’t answer the driver immediately. Instead, he turned to me, those piercing metallic-gray eyes locking onto mine, filled with expectation. Say it, his gaze urged, and despite the tiny flutter of embarrassment, I swallowed my pride and gave the driver my address.

I hated how it sounded coming out of my mouth. As if the mere mention of my street confirmed something unspoken—like I didn’t belong in a car this nice, next to a man this powerful. My run-down Brooklyn apartment didn’t exactly match the world he clearly came from. But if he cared, he didn’t show it.

“How long does that take, Kim?” he asked, still staring at me like he was trying to unravel me piece by piece.

“About thirty-five minutes, sir,” the driver answered smoothly as he pulled away from the curb.

“Perfect,” he rasped, reaching forward and pressing a button on the console. A soft whirring sound filled the space as a tinted partition slid up, sealing us off from Kim and the outside world. A useless attempt at privacy, really—I doubted the partition was soundproof, and even if it was, I wasn’t exactly planning on being quiet.

I turned toward him fully now, leaning into the plush seat, letting the dim glow of passing streetlights cast shifting shadows over his sharp features.

“So,” he murmured, lifting a hand to brush a stray strand of hair from my face. His fingers were warm, rough from experience, and the casual intimacy of the gesture sent a jolt of heat straight through me. “Tell me, my queen, how can I worship you in thirty-five minutes?”

Fuck.

If I had known he was going to keep calling me that, I might have never said it in the first place. Or maybe I would have—because hearing those words in that deep, gravelly voice did things to me. My body shivered in response, my core clenching, arousal pooling low in my stomach. I could feel how wet I was already, the slick evidence pressing against the delicate fabric of my thong.

I tilted my chin up, parting my legs just enough to show him exactly what I wanted.

“Get on your knees,” I commanded, my voice steady, unwavering.

His gaze darkened, lips parting just slightly as his jaw ticked.

God, I loved s*x. I loved this—the control, the hunger, the anticipation crackling in the air like static electricity. I had never been shy about what I wanted, never hesitant to tell a man how to touch me, when to touch me, where to touch me. And this man? Oh, he was going to touch me exactly how I wanted.

“Gladly,” he rumbled, shifting onto his knees in front of me, his massive body folding so easily, so fluidly, like he belonged there.

His hands found my ankles first, his touch firm but careful, as if he was taking his time memorizing every inch of me. “You said no kissing,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over my skin, “does that go for your entire body?”

“Only my lips,” I answered, my voice softer now, anticipation curling through me.

He hummed—that deep, delicious sound that made my thighs clench—and then lifted one of my legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to my ankle.

I shivered.

His lips were so warm, his breath hot against my skin, and as he began a slow, torturous path up my calf, I leaned my head back against the seat, letting my eyes slip shut. I wanted to feel everything—every brush of his lips, every scrape of his stubble, every lingering caress of his fingers as they traced the curve of my thigh.

He reached my upper thigh, and I parted my legs further, giving him an unobstructed view of exactly how much I wanted him.

I knew he could see it.

I knew he could see how soaked I already was through my barely-there thong.

He made a low, guttural sound that sent another wave of heat straight through me, his fingers skimming up the sides of my thighs before curling around the fabric of my dress. With a swift, effortless motion, he pushed it up, bunching it around my hips, exposing me completely.

“Goddess,” he whispered, his breath warm against the damp fabric of my thong. “You’re a f*****g goddess.”

His fingers flexed against my thighs, and then—with a sharp, decisive motion—he grabbed the delicate scrap of lace and tore it clean off.

A gasp left my lips.

My eyes snapped open, locking onto his smug, wicked grin as he twirled the ruined fabric between his fingers.

“Seriously?” I shot him a glare, my chest rising and falling rapidly. “Underwear is expensive, you know.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous. “Just a souvenir,” he murmured, folding the destroyed lace and tucking it neatly into the pocket of his pants like some sort of f*****g trophy.

I barely had time to react before his hands gripped my hips, yanking me to the edge of the seat with an ease that made my stomach flip.

And then—oh f**k.

His mouth was on me.

Hot, demanding, devouring.

My head dropped back against the seat, a broken moan slipping from my lips as his tongue circled my c**t, firm and perfect. He worked me like he had memorized my body, like he already knew exactly what made me fall apart.

And f**k if I cared that Kim might hear me.

I was being worshiped in the backseat of a moving car by the most dangerously gorgeous man I had ever met.

His tongue circled my c**t, moving in perfect rhythm—fast enough to drive me wild, with just the right amount of pressure to make my toes curl. The sensation was electric, sending pulses of pleasure straight through my body, making my thighs tremble. I spread my legs even wider for him, giving him full access, wanting nothing to get in his way. I needed this. I needed him to have no obstacles, no distractions—just pure, unfiltered pleasure.

My hand found the back of his head—not to push him closer, not to pull him away, but simply because I needed to touch him. The feeling of his buzzed hair beneath my palm sent tingles through me, tiny sparks of heat dancing over my skin. It was rough and masculine, and something about the contrast of it against my soft fingertips made the moment even more intoxicating.

I let my moans run free, not holding back, not caring who heard. Every sound that escaped my lips was a reward for him—for the way his mouth worked me over with a skill that was almost unfair. He was so good at this, better than I had ever expected, and I couldn’t stop myself from whispering broken praises into the air between us.

One of his hands disappeared from my ass, and a moment later, I felt his fingers teasing at my entrance, a question lingering in the way he pressed—silent, waiting. He was seeking permission, making sure I wanted it.

“Yes!” I gasped, my head falling back against the leather seat. “Do it!”

He groaned low in his throat, like my words had affected him just as much as his touch was affecting me. Then, slowly, he pressed a finger inside, sinking deep into my slick heat. The stretch was just enough to make me gasp, the sensation so overwhelmingly good that my walls clenched around him in response. He must have felt it because another low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest.

Fuck.

I was already so close. His mouth and fingers worked together in perfect tandem, pushing me closer and closer to that peak. I wanted to hold off, wanted to suffocate my release for just a moment longer—knowing that when I finally let go, it would hit me like an avalanche.

“Don’t stop,” I urged breathlessly, gripping his head tighter, my fingers curling into his skin.

He hummed in response, the vibration sending an extra jolt of pleasure through me, but he didn’t change a damn thing. Smart man. Sometimes, you could tell a guy to keep going, and for some reason, they’d switch everything up, throwing off your impending orgasm and killing the mood.

But not him.

No, he did exactly what I told him to do, keeping up the same perfect rhythm, the same precise pressure, the same dizzying movements that had my body trembling.

His tongue drummed against my c**t, relentless, while his finger curled deep inside me, stroking that perfect spot again and again, pulling me toward the inevitable.

And then—f**k.

It hit me like a shockwave.

A moan—no, a scream—ripped from my throat as I let go completely, my orgasm crashing over me in sharp, endless waves. My body seized with pleasure, thighs shaking, back arching, every nerve alight with the overwhelming sensation of pure, unfiltered bliss.

He didn’t stop—not right away. He worked me through every second of my release, letting me ride it out on his tongue, making sure I wrung every last drop of pleasure from it.

I gasped, my hands finding his shoulders, pushing him away as the intensity became too much, my body still pulsing from the aftershocks.

But I wasn’t done.

Not even close.

I wanted more. Needed more.

And as he fell back onto the balls of his feet, I saw exactly what I wanted.

His erection strained against his expensive suit pants, the thick outline pressing against the dark fabric, so big and hard that my mouth nearly watered at the sight of it.

“Sit,” I ordered, my voice breathless but firm.

I shifted back, giving him space to move, watching as he lowered himself onto the seat beside me. His eyes never left mine, molten steel locked onto me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I wanted control. Needed it. If I was on top, I had control over the pace, over the depth—over everything.

He must have understood because he obeyed without question, sitting back and immediately reaching for his belt. His hands worked fast, unbuckling it with smooth precision, pulling it through the loops and tossing it aside.

“Condom?” I asked, taking over the task of getting his pants open.

His hands disappeared behind him, reaching into his back pocket, retrieving his wallet with ease. Typical guy move—always keeping a condom there.

I didn’t wait for him to pull it out. I was too focused on freeing him, my hands tugging at his crisp white button-down, pulling it from where it had been tucked into his slacks. Then, with a quick tug, I unzipped his pants, dragging both them and his boxers down just enough—just enough to let him spring free.

And holy f**k.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

It was huge.

I had never, in my entire life, seen a c**k like this before. Not only was it long, but it was thick, veined, and angry-looking—like it was pissed off that it wasn’t inside me already.

My lips parted instinctively, my tongue darting out to wet them.

Normally, I never went down on a guy I didn’t know, but f**k, something about him—about this—made me want to see if I could even fit him in my mouth.

“My queen,” he groaned, his voice thick with restraint.

My eyes flicked up to meet his, those molten-gray irises dark and hooded with lust.

“If you do that,” he warned, “I won’t be able to last.”

A wicked grin curled at the corners of my mouth.

I trailed my hands up his thighs, slow and teasing, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. Then, pushing up onto my knees, I let my breasts press against his chest, letting him feel the effect he had on me.

His breath hitched. His hands twitched at his sides, as if resisting the urge to grab me.

Good.

I loved seeing men like this—powerful, controlled, dominant in every way—completely undone by me.

It was intoxicating.

It made me feel powerful.

And tonight, I planned to own that power.

I reached out for the condom, snatching the small foil packet from his hand with eager fingers. Without hesitation, I bit down on one corner, tearing the seal open with my teeth before spitting the piece of wrapper aside. The sound of crinkling foil filled the space between us, but it was drowned out by the heavy breathing that neither of us seemed to control.

My hand wrapped around his c**k, the heat of him burning against my palm, the thickness making my fingers strain to fully encircle him. I gave him two slow pumps, feeling the silken skin glide beneath my grip, before rolling the condom down over his length with steady precision.

A deep, guttural groan escaped his lips, his head tilting back against the leather seat as his fingers flexed against my thighs. That sound alone sent another wave of heat rushing through me, pooling low in my stomach, making me ache to feel him inside me.

The moment I straddled his lap, his hands moved with purpose, grabbing onto my ass with a possessive grip. His fingers dug into the flesh, spreading me slightly, like he needed to hold every inch of me, like he was desperate to make this moment last. His metallic gray eyes were dark with lust, his pupils blown wide as they roamed my body.

I reached down between us, wrapping my fingers around his c**k once more, guiding him to my entrance. I took a slow breath before sinking down, taking him inch by inch, stretching around his impossible size.

A sharp hiss left his lips, his grip on my ass tightening as if he was barely restraining himself.

"f**k, you’re tight," he groaned, his voice hoarse, almost reverent. His gaze dropped between us, fixated on the place where we were joined, watching as my body took him in.

I felt my own lips curl into a smirk, taking his words as the highest compliment—even though I was fairly certain this wasn’t just about me being tight. He was huge, after all. A giant in every way the word could count.

But there was no time to dwell on that. No time to hesitate.

I began to move.

At first, it was slow, a deliberate rolling of my hips as I adjusted to the sheer size of him. Every downward motion pushed him deeper, stretching me further, making me feel full in a way that left me breathless. My fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, exposing inch after inch of inked skin.

Tattoo after tattoo covered his chest, his shoulders, his arms. It was a masterpiece of black and gray, intricate designs woven together, telling stories I wanted to trace with my tongue. The sight of them only turned me on more, made me clench around him as I moved.

His hand slid to the top of my dress, gripping the fabric and tugging it down with a roughness that sent a thrill through me. The strapless material gave way easily, slipping lower, and suddenly my breasts were bare, the cool air against my skin making my n*****s harden instantly.

His sharp inhale told me everything I needed to know.

I knew my body was perfect—I had always been confident in that. But seeing the way he looked at me, the way his eyes darkened with raw hunger, made my confidence surge even higher.

He was in awe.

His hands roamed up my sides, large and firm, leaving trails of fire in their wake. My own fingers explored his body in return, tracing the ridges of his sculpted chest, feeling the strength beneath his skin. His stomach was taut, defined, not an ounce of softness anywhere. His biceps flexed beneath my touch, thick and powerful, his shoulders broad and strong enough to hold me up no matter how hard we moved.

His jaw clenched, his teeth gritted together, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought for control. I could see it—the struggle to hold back, to keep himself from finishing too soon.

But honestly?

I wouldn’t have cared.

Everything about this—about him—was perfect. Utterly perfect.

The car suddenly came to a stop, but neither of us did. If anything, he only gripped me tighter, his hands guiding me now, lifting me up and pulling me back down onto him with a force that sent shockwaves of pleasure through my body.

I threw my head back, letting go completely, reveling in the sensation of being so utterly filled. My hands slid down to his knees, bracing myself as I bounced on his lap, adjusting my angle so that every movement drove him deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside me again and again.

"Just like that," I moaned, lifting one leg slightly, shifting my position just enough to send a fresh jolt of pleasure through me.

He groaned, his head falling forward, his forehead nearly touching my chest as he watched the way my body took him in.

"I don’t know how much longer I can keep up," he admitted through clenched teeth, his eyes wild with lust. "So f*****g tight, my queen. So f*****g tight."

That did it.

My body clenched down on him as the pleasure crested, crashing over me in a blinding wave. My scream filled the car as I let go, as my orgasm consumed me, as every muscle in my body locked up with the intensity of it.

And he grinned.

The bastard grinned like he had won something, like he had conquered me, like making me come apart on top of him was the greatest accomplishment of his life.

And maybe it was.

Because f**k, it felt that good.

As I came down from the high, my body still shuddering, I felt him throb inside me. His hands grasped my hips, holding me down as he buried himself to the hilt, a guttural roar ripping from his throat as he followed me over the edge.

His release was just as intense, his body jerking beneath me, his head thrown back in bliss.

"God," he exhaled, slumping against the seat as if he still couldn’t process what had just happened.

I smirked, breathless, sliding off of him, immediately feeling the emptiness where he had been.

"Thank you for the ride," I teased, adjusting my dress, covering myself once more.

His gaze met mine, those stormy gray eyes still burning with something I couldn’t quite place.

"Anytime, my queen," he murmured.

I let out a small, amused huff, shaking my head slightly as I reached for the door handle.

"I know what you said," he started, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

But I cut him off before he could finish.

"I don’t do more than this," I said simply, glancing at him over my shoulder. "But thank you anyway."

With a playful wink, I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking against the pavement.

His hand covered mine on the door for a brief moment, his touch lingering, as if he was searching for something—some sign that I wasn’t sure.

Then he sighed, his jaw tightening before he finally nodded in reluctant acceptance.

"Thank you as well, queen," he said. And then, softer: "I hope I’ll see you again."

The door shut, and the car pulled away from the curb.

I stood there for a moment, watching the taillights fade into the night, an unexpected feeling twisting in my chest.

Had I made some kind of mistake?

"You won’t," I muttered under my breath, shaking the thought away.

Then, without another glance back, I turned toward my building.

I would never see him again.