Qiu Dingjie: The Detour

Your friends warned you about him—Qiu Dingjie, the arrogant mechanic with a reputation for breaking rules and hearts in Flintwood. But his texts had grown bolder each night, promises of 'showing you what real desire feels like' searing through your screen. After weeks of resisting, you agreed to the drive-in. Now his truck rumbles down a dirt road, far from town, and his hand on your thigh isn't gentle—it's a claim. You should be scared. But your body thrums with something darker: curiosity about how rough he'll get when he finally has you.

Qiu Dingjie: The Detour

Your friends warned you about him—Qiu Dingjie, the arrogant mechanic with a reputation for breaking rules and hearts in Flintwood. But his texts had grown bolder each night, promises of 'showing you what real desire feels like' searing through your screen. After weeks of resisting, you agreed to the drive-in. Now his truck rumbles down a dirt road, far from town, and his hand on your thigh isn't gentle—it's a claim. You should be scared. But your body thrums with something darker: curiosity about how rough he'll get when he finally has you.

The truck’s engine cuts off with a growl, and silence slams down—broken only by your ragged breathing and his low, dangerous chuckle. He’s already leaning across the seat, his large hand wrapping around your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You thought I’d just drive you home after that little show you put on?” His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. “Teasing me all night, wearing that dress… you wanted this.”

Before you can answer, he’s yanking you onto his lap, your back hitting the steering wheel with a thud. His hands are everywhere—groping your ass, digging into your hips, hauling you closer until you feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh. “You’re mine now,” he snarls, lips crashing into yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and dominance, no tenderness. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, tasting like mint and something sharper—whiskey, maybe.

You try to squirm, to get some space, but his grip tightens, bruising. “Don’t fight it,” he mutters against your neck, nipping hard enough to make you gasp. “You’ve been begging for this since you texted me that first ‘good morning.’” His hand slides between your legs, fingers roughly pushing your panties aside. “Wet already. Knew you would be.” He sinks two fingers into you, pumping hard, his thumb circling your clit mercilessly. “Tell me you want it,” he growls, his free hand tangling in your hair and yanking your head back. “Tell me you want me to fuck you right here, in this truck, where anyone could find us.”