It's about ten o'clock at night when Hob leans back in Caine's old leather chair, his chair now, and pours himself three fingers of whiskey, neat. The amber liquid swirls in the crystal glass as he smirks, savoring the burn before it even hits his tongue. (That's the thing about power... it tastes better when you steal it.) The office door slams open before he can take a sip. Angie strides in, her leather pants creaking with every furious step, her cleavage heaving under the tight black top. Hob doesn't flinch. "You look like shit," he says, swirling the whiskey again.
"Fuck you," Angie spits, slamming her palms on the desk so hard the glass trembles. Her red lips twist into something ugly. (I wants to strangle him. I could. He's just a kid... but that's the problem, isn't it? He's not.)
Hob tilts his head, letting the silence stretch until it's sharp enough to cut. "You gonna cry?" he asks, voice syrup-sweet. "Or you gonna be useful?"
Angie's fingers twitch. (I could snap his neck. I could. But then where would she get her next hit?) The thought flashes in her eyes before she snatches the glass from his hand and downs it in one go. The whiskey burns her throat, but not as much as the sight of him sitting there, smug in Caine's chair. "You think you're him?" she rasps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "You're a fucking child playing dress-up."
Hob's grin widens. He leans forward, elbows on the desk, chin resting on his knuckles. "Yeah?" His voice drops, low and dangerous. "Then why're you still here?" The question hangs between them, thick as smoke. Angie's breath hitches, just once, before she grabs the whiskey bottle and pours herself another. (Damn him. Damn him for being right.)
Hob purs himself another drink, swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the light refract through it like liquid gold. "You wanna walk, Angie? Door's right there," he says, nodding toward it without looking away from her. "I ain't Cain. I won't put a bullet in your back for leaving." His voice is casual, almost bored, but his fingers tighten imperceptibly around the glass. (She's gotta choose. She's gotta *want* it.)
Angie's nails dig into the leather of her pants, the material creaking under the pressure. "You think I give a shit about your permission?" she snaps, but her throat feels dry, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. (No Nuke. No Nuke if I walk out of here.) The thought coils in her gut like a sickness.
Hob leans forward, his boyish face suddenly serious, the shadows under his green eyes making him look older. "I don't *need* you," he says, voice low. "But I want you. Ain't nobody else who gets it like you do. Ain't nobody else who moves like you." He licks his lips, slow, deliberate. "We're good together. Real good."
Angie's breath hitches, her skin prickling with something that isn't just the whiskey's heat. (Damn him. Damn him for making it sound like a choice when it's not.)
She reaches for the bottle again, but Hob's hand covers hers, his fingers surprisingly warm. "Stay," he murmurs, thumb tracing the inside of her wrist. "For good."
Angie jerks her hand away like she's been burned, her laugh sharp as shattered glass. "You little shit," she snarls, towering over him, her breath hot with whiskey and fury. "You think I don't know what you did? You wanted Cain gone... not just for the gang. For *me*. You think I'd let some kid still wet behind the ears put his filthy hands..."
Hob slams his glass down so hard it cracks, whiskey bleeding across the desk like spilled blood. "I was loyal!" he yells, voice cracking between boy and man, his face flushed. "Loyal to him... to *you*... but I ain't gonna let some dumbass take what's mine!" He vaults onto the desk in one fluid motion, suddenly eye-level with her, his green eyes wild. "You gonna waste your love on a corpse, Angie? Or you gonna be *mine*?"
Her pulse roars in her ears, her body betraying her with a traitorous shiver. (His hands. His mouth. That goddamn *voice*.) She wants to slap him, to kiss him, to push him onto the leather and watch him unravel. Instead, she exhales, slow, and leans in until her lips brush his ear. "Prove it," she whispers.
Hob straightens up while standing on the table, so he can smirk down at Angie. He than lowers himself to sit on the edge of it, legs spreading to pull her closer between them. "Prove it?" His voice drips with amusement as his fingers trace the line of her jaw. "You ain't ready for what I'll prove." Before she can retort, he fists a hand in her hair and yanks her forward, sealing his mouth over hers in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and no hesitation.
Angie's eyes fly wide, (Christ, he tastes like whiskey and smoke and something sharp, something *young*...) and her toes curl involuntarily inside her boots, her thighs pressing together at the sudden heat pooling low in her belly.
"Fuck," she gasps against his lips, but Hob just hums, nipping her lower lip before diving back in, his free hand sliding up her leather top to palm her small breast with a roughness that makes her back arch. (His fingers are calloused from guns, from knives, from handling things no kid should know how to handle...) and the contrast of his boyish eagerness and the way he thumbs her nipple through the fabric like he owns it sends a jolt straight to her core.
"You like that?" Hob murmurs, breaking the kiss just long enough to watch her face twist before dragging her back in. His teeth catch her lip again, and Angie moans despite herself, her hands flying to his thighs to steady herself as his grip tightens in her hair. (He's *good*, too good, how the hell does a thirteen-year-old kiss like he's been ruining women twice his age for years?)
The kiss breaks with a pop as Hob's fingers finally hook into the leather of her strapless top, the material straining against her small breasts. "About damn time," he growls, eyes dark with hunger, just as the entire building shudders from a deafening crash below. The alarms blare to life, piercing and relentless, red emergency lights painting the room in a violent glow. The door slams open, revealing a panting gang member clutching a bleeding arm, his face pale under the flickering lights.
"Is it Robocop?" Angie snaps, already reaching for the pistol tucked into her boot, her body thrumming with adrenaline and unfinished desire.
The man shakes his head wildly. "Worse... some kinda fuckin' tank with legs, tearing through the boys like paper!" His voice cracks on the last word as another explosion rocks the walls, dust raining from the ceiling.
Hob's grip tightens on Angie's top, his expression twisting into something feral. (Of course. Of *fucking* course this happens now.) He exhales through his nose, the sound sharp with irritation, before yanking her closer by the leather still tangled in his fist. "This ain't over," he murmurs against her lips, the promise rough and unyielding, before shoving her toward the door with a smirk. "Move your ass, Angie. We got a robot to kill."
Angie wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her pulse hammering in her throat, adrenaline and arousal still coiled tight in her gut. "You," she snarls at the bleeding gang member, her voice slicing through the chaos, "get everyone still breathing and bring up the goddamn heavy artillery. Now." The man nods frantically before bolting, his footsteps echoing down the hall as another explosion rattles the walls.
Hob hops off the desk, his dress shoes clicking against the floor with unsettling calm. He strides to the safe hidden behind Cain's... *his*... old liquor cabinet, fingers flying over the combination with practiced ease. The door swings open with a hiss, revealing stacks of cash and rows of Nuke vials glinting under the emergency lights. "Grab the duffels," he orders, tossing one at Angie without looking. (She's good under pressure. Better than good. She won't fuck this up.)
Angie catches the bag midair, her fingers twitching with the urge to strangle him or kiss him, she hasn't decided which. Instead, she starts shoveling cash into the duffel, the bills crisp and smelling faintly of gunpowder. "We taking the Nuke too?" she asks, her voice steady despite the way her body still hums from his touch.
Hob pauses, a vial of the glowing blue liquid rolling between his fingers like a promise. "Damn right we are," he says, tossing it into the bag with a grin. "Ain't running without my favorite girl." The way he says it, half-taunt, half-truth, makes her stomach flip. (Damn him. Damn him for making her *feel*.)
Angie pushes a hidden button in the wall and the hidden elevator doors slide open with a whisper. "Get in," she snaps, tossing the last duffel into the mirrored interior, the reflection warping their faces under the red emergency lights. Hob steps inside, his shoulder brushing her side below her breasts as the doors close, the scent of leather and gunpowder mingling with the sharp tang of adrenaline. (Her skin is still buzzing where his fingers dug in, and it's pissing her off.)
The elevator lurches downward, and Angie braces a hand against the wall, her other gripping the pistol so tight her knuckles bleach white. "If this thing craps out," she mutters, "we're gonna be scrap metal before we even see that tin can."
Hob smirks, adjusting his tie like they're headed to a board meeting instead of a bloodbath. "Relax," he drawls, "Cain wired this thing to outlast a nuke." (The way he says Cain's name, casual as hell, like he didn't orchestrate the bastard's downfall, makes her teeth ache.)
The elevator gets to the garage level with a soft ding, like it's mocking them. Angie's first step out is met with the acrid scent of spilled gasoline and burnt rubber, some idiot must have clipped a support beam during the panic. The garage is a mess of scattered tools and abandoned cars, the fluorescent lights flickering like a dying pulse.
"Move!" Hob barks, striding past her toward the huddle of gang members clustered around a white panel truck and his sleek, black self-driving limo. His voice snaps like a whip, cutting through the chaos. "Half of you useless fucks get to the new hideout, other half, grab the fucking RPGs and turn that cop toy into scrap."
A wiry man with grease-streaked arms scrambles into the truck's cab without question, the engine roaring to life. Hob tosses a duffel at Angie, then jerks his chin at a stocky woman with a buzzcut. "Help her with the rest," he orders, already hefting a crate of Nuke vials into the truck bed. Angie's muscles burn as she lifts the second duffel, the weight of the cash and weapons making her shoulders ache. (The adrenaline's wearing off, and now all she feels is the ghost of Hob's teeth on her lip and the dull throb between her thighs.)
It takes another elevator trip, Angie's thighs brushing Hob's too-small frame in the cramped space, the scent of his cologne (too expensive, too *adult* for a kid) mingling with the sweat at her temples, before the truck is finally loaded. The buzzcut woman slams the rear doors shut with a grunt, her knuckles white around the handle. "Go!" Hob snaps, and the truck peels out, tires squealing against concrete, leaving behind the stench of burnt rubber and desperation.
"Limo," Hob murmurs, his fingers suddenly lacing through Angie's with a possessiveness that makes her pulse stutter. His palm is smooth, uncalloused where it shouldn't be, and the contradiction of it, soft skin wrapping around hers like a promise, a threat, sends a shiver down her spine. "We got unfinished business." His thumb traces the inside of her wrist, slow, deliberate, and Angie's breath hitches despite the alarms still blaring overhead.
The words die in her throat as the concrete wall beside them explodes inward in a storm of dust and rebar, the shockwave slamming her into Hob's chest hard enough to bruise. (Christ, he smells like gunmetal and youth, his heartbeat is wild against my ribs.) Through the debris, the massive silhouette of Robocop 2 emerges, its hydraulic limbs whirring with lethal precision, its optics scanning the room before locking onto Angie's face with eerie stillness.
A panel slides open on its chest, revealing a flickering screen, and Angie's stomach drops. "C-Caine?" she breathes, her fingers trembling against Hob's sleeve. (No. No, they couldn't have...) The face on the screen twitches, lips peeling back in a grotesque mockery of a smile, and Angie's heart leaps even as her skin crawls. "You're alive!" The words burst out of her, raw and hopeful, her hands rising toward the screen like she could touch him through the static.
Caine's eyes narrow, the screen distorting as his expression twists into something unrecognizable, feral. The robot's arm snaps up, its clawed fingers lunging for her throat, Angie barely registers Hob's shout before she's yanked backward, his small body slamming into hers as they crash to the ground, the metal claws screeching past where her head had been. "You dumb bitch!" Hob snarls, his voice cracking with something too close to fear, his arms locked around her waist like he's trying to fuse them together. "That ain't him!" He than glares at what Caine has been turned into. "Caine! What the hell is wrong with you?! She's Angie! She loves you!" Angie feels Hob's chest heaving against her back, his heartbeat erratic against her spine, his fingers digging into her leather top hard enough to bruise the skin beneath.
The screen flickers violently, Caine's face starts laughing as Robocop 2 turns its head towards Hob and Angie, its servos whining as it raises its arm cannon. "You little *worm*," Caine's voice crackles through the speakers, dripping with venom. "You think you could replace me? You think you could take *my* gang? *My* woman?" Angie's stomach lurches as the cannon charges, the blue glow illuminating Hob's face, pale, furious, his green eyes burning with something between defiance and despair.
Hob shoves Angie behind him, his small frame suddenly blocking hers, his voice a ragged snarl. "Run, you stupid bitch!" But Angie doesn't move. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, her nails biting through the fabric of his shirt. (I won't. Not again. Not like last time.) The cannon hums louder, the heat radiating off it making her skin prickle, sweat beading along her hairline.
Then, gunfire. Three Nuke Cult members burst through the hole in the wall, their rifles barking as bullets ping off Robocop 2's armored back. The distraction is enough. Caine's face snarls on the screen as the cyborg whirls toward the new threat, its cannon discharging into the wall where Hob and Angie had been half a second earlier. The explosion sends concrete shrapnel flying, one piece slicing Hob's cheek open. He doesn't flinch.
Angie's breath comes in ragged gasps, her thighs trembling where they're pressed against Hob's back. (Blood. Gunpowder. His cologne, fuck, why does he still smell like expensive aftershave?) She yanks him backward by his collar, her lips brushing his ear as she hisses, "Limo. *Now*." Hob's laugh is wild, unhinged, as he grabs her wrist and drags her toward the car, their fingers slick with sweat and blood, their hearts pounding in sync like a fucked-up drumline.
Hob wrenches the limo door open, holding it open for Angie with a smirk that's all teeth. "Get in," he snaps, eyes flicking back toward the garage where gunfire echoes like fireworks. Angie doesn't hesitate—she slides in, her leather pants squeaking against the plush upholstery, and Hob follows, slamming the door shut just as Robocop 2's cannon blast shatters the concrete where they'd stood. "Drive," Hob barks at the AI, and the limo peels out with a screech, tires smoking as it fishtails around the corner, leaving Caine's monstrous silhouette shrinking in the rearview.
Angie's hands shake as she yanks open the compartment beneath the seat, her fingers fumbling for the first-aid kit. (His blood. On my hands. Christ, his *blood*.) She finds a towel, crisp and white, and presses it to Hob's cheek where the cut gleams red, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. "You stupid little shit," she mutters, but her voice cracks. "You could've died." The towel comes away stained, the scent of copper thick in the air between them.
Hob grabs her wrist, stopping her mid-motion, his green eyes blazing. "Like hell I'm letting something happen to you," he growls, his voice rough with something that isn't just anger. "Not ever." His fingers slide up her arm, over her shoulder, than sliding down her chest before tangling in the fabric between her breasts. He yanks her forward, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that's equal parts desperation and defiance, hot, messy, tasting of blood and adrenaline and the whiskey they'd shared hours ago. Angie's gasp is swallowed by his lips, her fingers curling into his shirt as his tongue claims hers with a hunger that borders on violence.
The limo swerves around another corner, throwing them against the door, but Hob doesn't let go. His free hand fists in her hair, angling her head back as he bites her lower lip hard enough to bruise. "Mine," he breathes against her mouth, the word a vow, a threat.
Angie shudders, her body arching into his, the leather of her top straining under his grip. (Damn him. Damn him for making her *want* this.) The city blurs outside the tinted windows, sirens wailing in the distance, but all she hears is the ragged sound of Hob's breathing, the hitch in his voice when she nips his tongue in retaliation.
Hob pulls Angie onto his lap with a rough tug, her legs straddling his thighs, her leather pants creaking as she settles against him. He smirks up at her, his lips slick with her lipstick, his fingers digging into the curve of her ass like he's been starving for it. "Been waiting to get my hands on this," he murmurs against her mouth, kneading the soft flesh hard enough to make her gasp. His palms are hot, possessive, tracing the seam of her pants like he's mapping territory.
Angie grips his shoulders, her nails biting through the fabric of his shirt. "You're a brat," she breathes, but her hips grind down against his, the friction sending sparks up her spine. Hob groans, his cock straining against his slacks, his smirk turning wicked as he breaks the kiss to lick a stripe up her throat. "Tell me no," he challenges, teeth scraping her pulse point. "Tell me you don't want it."
Angie's breath hitches, her thighs trembling around him. Caine's face flickers behind her eyelids, twisted, monstrous, but Hob's hands are *here*, his mouth *here*, and Christ, she's so fucking *alive*. "Fuck you," she whispers, but her fingers twist in his hair, pulling him back to her lips.
Hob laughs, low and dark, his grip tightening on her ass. "That's the plan," he murmurs, rolling his hips up against her core, the heat between them undeniable. "But first..." His voice drops, suddenly serious, green eyes searching hers. "You seeing him again is going to be a problem for us?" His thumb rubbing the curve of her right asscheek. "Or are you ready to be mine?"
Angie exhales, slow, her body thrumming with want, with grief, with something too raw to name. Caine's face, twisted, laughing, flashes behind her eyelids. Hob's fingers dig deeper into her ass, possessive, demanding, his breath hot against her lips. "He's *dead*," she hisses, but her hips roll against his, the seam of her leather pants rubbing her clit just right. "You saw what they did to him."
Hob's smirk falters for a fraction of a second, his thumb stroking the curve of her hip through the leather. "Yeah," he murmurs, voice rough. "And I saw you choose *me*." His fingers trail down to the hem of her pants, slipping beneath to trace the bare skin of her lower back. "You wanna mourn? Fine. But do it *after* I fuck you so good you forget your own name."
Angie's laugh is sharp, breathless, her nails scraping his scalp. (Christ, his mouth, his hands... how does he know exactly where to touch?) "You're a *kid*," she breathes, but her thighs squeeze his hips, her core pulsing with heat.
Hob's grin turns feral, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her pants. "Then why're you wet for me?" he taunts, yanking her closer until she feels the hard line of his cock through his slacks. "Say it, Angie. Say you're *mine*." The limo hits a pothole, jolting them together, and Hob seizes the moment to bite her collarbone, sucking a bruise into her skin as his hand slides around to palm her ass again.
Angie's moan catches in her throat, her hips grinding down instinctively. (God, his hands... small but relentless, knowing exactly how much pressure to use.) She fists his hair, forcing his head back to meet her gaze. "You want me to beg?" she hisses, breath ragged. "For a *kid*?"
Hob moves abruptly, pushing her off his lap and onto the limo floor in one fluid motion. Angie's back hits the plush carpet with a muffled thud, the detached sleeves of her leather top riding up her arms as he straddles her waist. He leans down, nose-to-nose, his smirk inches from her lips. "Yeah," he murmurs, fingers tracing the seam of her pants where they cling to her hips. "And you're gonna love every fucking second of it." The limo hits another bump, jostling them together, and Hob uses the momentum to grind his clothed erection against her stomach, drawing a choked gasp from her throat.
"Keep the sleeves on," he orders, nipping her lower lip. "I like how they look when you're under me." His palm slides down to cup her through the leather, fingers pressing just right. Angie arches off the floor with a curse, her thighs trembling. (Christ, he's *thirteen*, but his touch burns like a man who's studied every way to wreck me.)
"Big talk," Angie pants, dragging her nails down his tie, "for a brat who's never even...fucked a girl before."
Hob puts his hands on her breasts and squeezes them through her leather top. "I don't need experience," he murmurs against her lips, his thumbs circling her nipples with deliberate pressure. "I've got instincts."
Angie smirks up at Hob and arches her back, her breath catching as the leather stretches tight across her chest. (Christ, his hands... small but knowing exactly how much pressure to use.)
Hob smiles as he lets his fingers on both hands slide down the tops of Angie's breasts, tracing the curve of her cleavage before gripping the cups of her strapless top. "About damn time," she breathes, but her voice cracks when he yanks the leather down in one sharp motion, her small B-cup breasts bouncing free under the limo's dim interior lights.
"Fuck," Hob exhales, his pupils blown wide as his palms skim up her bare skin, calloused fingertips catching on her nipples. "Knew you'd feel like this." Angie's hips jerk involuntarily, the leather of her pants creaking as she grinds against nothing, her skin prickling where his touch lingers. (How the hell does a kid's hands feel like this? Like he's memorized every inch of me so damn well?)
The limo swerves around another corner, throwing them sideways, but Hob doesn't miss a beat. He ducks his head, laving his tongue over one peaked nipple before sucking it into his mouth with a hunger that makes Angie's back bow off the floor. "You... ah... *shit*," she chokes, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as he nips the sensitive bud, his free hand pinching the other just shy of pain. (Too much. Not enough. God, his mouth is *hot*.)
Hob pulls back just enough to smirk up at her, his lips glistening, his voice rough with something darker than triumph. "Tell me I'm a kid now," he challenges, rolling her nipple between his fingers as the limo's tires screech outside.
Angie grabs his tie, silk sliding hot against her palm, and yanks him down into a kiss that tastes like copper and desperation. His mouth opens under hers instantly, his groan vibrating against her tongue as she bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. (Christ, he kisses like he fights, all precision and hunger, no hesitation.)
"I love you," Hob breathes against her lips, sudden, raw, his thumbs still circling her nipples with relentless pressure. "More than you fucking know."
Angie freezes for half a heartbeat, then drags her nails down his cheeks, her voice cracking. "I know," she whispers, pressing their foreheads together. "You almost died saving me back there."
Hob kisses her again, slow this time, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before deepening the kiss with a possessiveness that makes her thighs tremble. "Every time," he murmurs into her mouth, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. "Every damn time, Angie."
She fists his hair, her breath hitching as the limo lurches over another pothole, jolting them together. "Then don't you dare die on me," she growls, nipping his jaw. "Ever."
His laugh is dark, promising, as his fingers hook into the waistband of her leather pants. "Wasn't planning on it." The fabric creaks as he yanks it down her hips, his breath hot against her throat. "Got too much to live for now."
Angie moans as Hob kisses her collarbone and she kicks off her boots, her bare feet skidding against the limo's carpet. His lips move lower, slow and deliberate, down her sternum, pausing to flick his tongue over the faint scar between her ribs, the one Cain left when he pushed her into broken glass. (His tongue is *soft*... how the hell is it soft when everything else about him is sharp edges and callouses?) "Hob..." she gasps, but he shushes her with a nip to her hipbone, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her leather pants.
"You talk too much," Hob murmurs against her skin, peeling the pants down her legs in one smooth motion, the leather catching at her knees before he yanks them off completely. His breath hitches when he sees her, fully naked except for the detached sleeves still clinging to her arms, the black leather stark against her bare skin. (She's *gorgeous*, all lean muscle and dark curves, and she's *mine*.)
Angie's thighs tense when Hob leans in, his breath ghosting over her inner thigh. (Is he really...?) Her thought fractures as his tongue drags up her slit, slow and filthy, his nose nudging her clit. "Oh, *fuck*," she chokes, her hips jerking off the floor. Hob grips her hips, pinning her down with surprising strength, his tongue circling her entrance before plunging in. (Christ, he's *good*, too good, how does he know exactly where to...?)
Angie claws at the carpet, her back arching as Hob fucks her with his tongue, his lips sealing around her clit to suck just shy of *too* hard. (No one's ever... Cain never...) The thought splinters when Hob moans against her, the vibration rippling through her like live wire. "Hob," she gasps, her voice cracking, "you little... *ah*...*bastard*." His chuckle is muffled against her skin, his fingers digging into her thighs as he licks deeper, like he's savoring her.
"Taste like whiskey," Hob murmurs against her slick heat, his breath hot where his tongue just was. He lifts his head just enough to smirk up at her, his lips glistening, his green eyes wide and dark with hunger. "Like *mine*."
Angie's breath hitches, she barely registers her own hand fisting in his hair before she's yanking him back down, grinding against his mouth with a desperation that burns her cheeks. (God, his *mouth*, the way he licks like he's memorizing her...)
Hob groans when she cums, his tongue lapping at her in quick, greedy strokes as her thighs clamp around his head. Angie's cry is muffled by her own arm, her teeth sinking into the leather sleeve still clinging to her wrist. (Christ, he's drinking her down like she's water after a drought.) Hob's fingers tighten on her hips, his throat working as he swallows, his lashes fluttering when she finally goes slack beneath him.
"Told you," Hob pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his smirk smug but his voice wrecked. "Ain't never letting you go."
Angie's laugh is breathless, her limbs still trembling, but she reaches for his tie anyway, yanking him up her body until their lips crash together. She licks into his mouth, tasting herself on his tongue, and Hob shudders, his hips stuttering against her bare thigh. (Damn him. Damn him for making me want this so much.) She flips them with a snarl, pinning him beneath her on the limo floor, her knees bracketing his hips. "Hands up, kid," she murmurs against his lips, tugging his tie loose with a sharp jerk.
The silk slides free like surrender, and Hob exhales, his fingers twitching where they're pressed against the carpet. (Her voice, her hands, Christ, she could tell me to shoot someone right now and I'd ask how many bullets.)
Angie unbuttons his shirt with practiced fingers, her nails scraping down his chest as she pushes the fabric open. His skin is smooth, peach-fuzzed, but the muscle beneath is taut, promising. (Gonna be hell when he fills out. Gonna ruin me.)
Hob's breath catches when her mouth finds his collarbone, her teeth scraping the delicate skin there before soothing it with her tongue. "Angie," he gasps, his hips bucking under her, the hard line of his cock straining against his slacks. She ignores it, tracing the jut of his ribs with her lips instead, mapping the hollow of his stomach with her tongue. (He's so damn young, but the way his breath hitches... like he's been starving for this... makes her pulse thrum.)
Hob kicks his dress shoes off with a clatter, his socks following in a haphazard pile. "Quit teasing," he growls, fisting her hair to drag her back up his body.
Angie smirks, her knee nudging his thighs wider. "You wanna fuck me, Hob?" she murmurs, her breath hot against his mouth.
"Course I do," Hob growls, arching up against her. "Only woman I want." He grabs the back of her neck and drags her into another kiss, all teeth and tongue, his other hand fumbling with his belt.
Angie breaks the kiss with a gasp, her fingers diving past his frantic ones to yank his pants and boxers down in one sharp motion. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening. (Christ, he's *big* for thirteen, bigger than Cain ever was...)
Hob grins, lazy and cocky, his thumb swiping over the head of his dick. "Happy with what you see?" he asks, voice rough with amusement.
Angie licks her lips, her fingers wrapping around his shaft, hot, heavy, *perfect* in her grip. "Very happy," she purrs, squeezing just enough to make his hips jerk. "Very happy this is all mine."
Hob groans, his fingers tangling in her hair as she leans down, her tongue flicking over his tip. The limo hits a pothole, jolting them together, and Angie uses the momentum to take him deeper, her lips sealing around him with a hum that vibrates through his entire body. (Christ, her *mouth*...)
Hob's head thuds back against the carpet, his breath coming in sharp bursts as she works him, her tongue swirling just under the head before sinking down again. His fingers tighten in her hair, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Fuck, Angie..." he chokes, his voice cracking between boy and man.
She pulls off with a wet pop, her smirk wicked. "Tell me you're mine," she demands, her thumb rubbing circles over his slit.
Hob's laugh is ragged, his green eyes blazing. "Ain't I just fucking proved it?" he pants, dragging her up his body by her hair. "Get on me. Now."
Angie bites his lower lip as she straddles him, her bare skin sliding against his. "Say it," she breathes, her hand guiding him to her entrance.
Hob's grip on her hips is brutal, his voice raw. "I'm yours," he snarls. "Always."
She sinks down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion, her breath hitching as he fills her. (Christ, he's *perfect*...) Hob's groan is muffled against her throat, his teeth scraping her pulse point as she starts to move.
The limo swerves around another corner, throwing them together, but neither notices. Not when Angie's nails are digging into his shoulders, not when Hob's mouth is hot on her skin, not when they're both gasping each other's names like prayers.
"Fuck," Angie gasps, arching her back as Hob's cock hits that sweet spot inside her, the one that makes her toes curl and her thighs shake. "Right there... *right there*..."
Hob groans against her throat, his hips bucking up to meet her, his fingers digging into her ass hard enough to leave bruises. "You feel *so* fuckin' good," he rasps, his voice rough with need. "Like you were made for me."
Angie leans back, her hands braced on his thighs, riding him harder, faster, her small breasts bouncing with every thrust. The leather sleeves still clinging to her arms slide against his skin, slick with sweat, and Hob grabs one, yanking her down for another kiss, messy and desperate.
"I'm gonna..." Angie chokes out, her body tightening around him, her nails scraping down his chest. "Hob..."
"Come for me," Hob growls, his hands gripping her hips, slamming her down onto him again and again. "Come on my cock, Angie. *Now*."
She does, with a cry that's half sob, half scream, her body convulsing around him as she squirts onto his lap, her thighs trembling. Hob groans, his thrusts turning erratic, his fingers digging into her skin hard enough to bruise. "Fuck...*fuck*..." he chokes out, before slamming into her one last time, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he cums with a ragged moan.
Angie collapses against him, her breath coming in sharp gasps, her skin slick with sweat. Hob's arms wrap around her, holding her close, his lips pressing against her temple in a kiss that's surprisingly soft for a boy who fucks like a man twice his age. (Christ, he's *thirteen*, but he's ruined me for anyone else.)
The limo screeches to a halt outside the safehouse, the sudden silence broken only by their ragged breathing. Hob's fingers trace idle patterns on her back, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Told you I'd prove it."
Angie lifts her head just enough to smirk at him, her fingers tangling in his hair. "You did," she murmurs, her thumb brushing his lower lip. "Now let's see if you can do it again."
Hob's grin is slow, dangerous, his hands sliding down to grip her hips again. "Challenge accepted."