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💜 Violet Parr 💜 The Incredibles 💜 150+ Images in Download-Link

Added 2025-05-19 17:00:06 +0000 UTC

The car was quiet.
Warm from the sun.
Tucked into a quiet corner of nowhere — just trees, shadows, and silence.

We were in the back seat. Windows half cracked. Music low.

I was sprawled out, my bare legs stretched across the cushions, head tilted back, breathing slow and steady. He sat beside me, tense, quiet, his eyes never leaving mine.

“You're not allowed to touch,” I whispered.
“Just watch.”

He nodded, jaw tight, hands clenched in his lap.

Good.

I slipped my hand between my thighs, teasing slow, dragging my fingertips along soft skin, circling where I was already warm and aching. My breath caught — not from the touch, but from how hard he was watching me. Like every movement I made was the center of his universe.

I opened my legs wider, lifting one knee against the door, showing him everything without shame.
I wanted him to see.
To burn for it.

My fingers moved in lazy, wet circles. I moaned softly — not for myself, but for him. I knew the sounds made his fists clench tighter. Knew the sight of me slipping two fingers inside, hips rolling slow against my palm, would drive him insane.

He looked wrecked.

I brought my other hand to my chest, pulling down the neckline of my shirt, cupping myself, playing with the soft peaks that had been aching for attention all afternoon.

“Does it make you crazy?” I asked, voice breathy, lips parted. “Watching me fall apart… knowing you can’t do anything?”

He didn’t answer — just nodded again, eyes wide, pupils blown.

I kept going. Faster now. Louder. Until my legs trembled, until my breath shattered, until I came with a quiet cry that filled the car with heat.

And only then did I crawl across the seat to him.

I kissed him slow. Let him taste my breath, feel the afterglow still pulsing through my body.

Then I pulled down his zipper.

He was already hard — painfully so. I smiled and kissed lower, sinking between his legs on the narrow seat, my lips wrapping around him like I’d missed the taste of him for days.

He groaned — deep, broken — his hand fisting in my hair as I moved slow at first, then faster, deeper, letting my throat stretch and my spit drip. I moaned around him, just to hear the sound echo inside the car.

When he was shaking, barely holding on, I pulled back and crawled into his lap.

“Now,” I whispered, sliding down onto him, wet and ready. “Now you get to touch.”

He gasped, gripping my waist as I rode him slow — hips rolling, lips parted, still moaning from the way he filled me. The car rocked with every movement. The windows fogged up. Our bodies stuck together in the heat.

And when we both came — hard, breathless, holding onto each other like the car might float away — I stayed in his lap, forehead pressed to his, smiling.

“Next time,” I whispered, “you’re the one begging first.”

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