Elon paced the hotel balcony, Xiang River lights flickering below like faulty circuits. Dawn humidity clung to his skin, sweat beading under his collar. Last night's launch with Dilraba still throbbed in his veins—her tight grip, those almond eyes locked on his as he drove deep. Fuck. He needed more data points. His phone buzzed. Factory talks today. Perfect cover.
He fired off a tweet: "Hunan heat fueling next-gen batteries. Launch imminent." Cryptic. For her.
Down in the lobby, air thick with jasmine and diesel exhaust from street vendors. Dilraba waited by the revolving doors, raven hair loose, red dress hugging curves that screamed prototype. She bit her lip. Spotted him. "Morning, rocket man. Sleep well after our test flight?"
Elon grinned, lanky frame closing the gap. Hand on her waist, thumb tracing hip bone. "Slept? Recharged. Your body's better than any superconductor." Pulled her close. Lips brushed ear. "Factory tour later. Meet me in the prototype garage. Two PM. Wear nothing under that dress."
Her laugh purred low. "Bossy. I like it. Chen thinks I'm shopping. He'll buy it." Eyes danced. "What if someone sees?"
"Then we improvise." His fingers dug in. Hard already. "Risk amps the thrust."
She slipped away, hips swaying. Left him pulsing.
Tesla garage squatted on Changsha's industrial fringe, chain-link fences rattling in the breeze. Elon unlocked the side door, prototype Roadster gleaming under harsh fluorescents—matte black, all curves and power. Oil scent mixed with rubber burn. He adjusted cameras. No feeds today. Private launch.
Door creaked. Dilraba. Bare legs flashing as dress hiked up. No panties. Good girl. "Miss me?" She sauntered over, nails scraping his chest.
"Data confirms." Grabbed her ass, lifted onto hood. Metal cool under her heat. Kissed rough—tongues battling, her moan vibrating through him. Hands shoved dress higher. Exposed. Wet already. Fingers slid in. Tight. Soaking.
"Fuck, Elon." Hips bucked. "Harder. Like you mean it."
He unzipped. Cock sprang free, thick and ready. Positioned. Thrust home. Deep. Her walls clenched, pulling him in. Roadster rocked. Grunts echoed off concrete walls. Sweat dripped. Hers. His. Mixed.
"You own this," he growled, pounding steady. "My launchpad. Say it."
"Yours." Gasped. Nails raked back. "Fuck me like a prototype. Break me in."
Pistoned faster. Her tits bounced free from dress neckline. Sucked nipple. Bit. She arched, screaming his name. Garage air turned furnace-hot, humid gusts from vents carrying her jasmine perfume and raw sex stink.
Climax built. Her first—shuddering, gushing around him. Pulled out. Spun her. Bent over hood. Reentered from behind. Slapped ass. Red print bloomed. "Again. For science."
Second wave hit her quick. Walls milked him. He exploded inside, jets painting deep. Collapsed together. Panting. Hood dented slight.
"Genius." She turned, kissed sloppy. Licked lips. "Next test?"
He chuckled, wiping sweat. Phone lit up. Factory rep: Meeting starting. "Teahouse tonight. Hidden one off Wuyi Square. Eight. Bring that jade necklace vibe—exotic fuel."
Her eyes flickered. Something off. "Sure. Chen's late again. Easy lie."
But as she dressed, his gut pinged. Anomalous reading.
Evening haze smothered Wuyi Square, food stalls hawking stinky tofu and chili oil skewers. Steam rose. Crowds pulsed, provincial chatter mixing English snatches from expats. Elon ducked into the teahouse alley—lanterns swaying, bamboo screens hiding bamboo booths. Owner nodded. Knew the drill. Private.
Dilraba arrived late. Dress black silk, slit to thigh. Necklace glinted—jade pendant nestled in cleavage. New. "Traffic." Slid in beside him. Knee pressed his.
"Or excuses?" Poured tea. Hot. Bittersweet. Hand on thigh, creeping up. Found bare skin. Again. "Tell me about Chen. He suspect?"
She shrugged, sipping slow. Lip bite. "Nah. Thinks I'm schmoozing investors. Found a lipstick stain on my blouse yesterday. Laughed it off. 'Networking perk.'" Mimicked his hesitant tone perfect.
Elon frowned. Thumb circled clit through silk. Wet seeping. "Passive. Weak link." Leaned in. "You're mine now. Full stack."
Her breath hitched. Hand gripped his cock through pants. Squeezed. "Prove it. Here."
Booth narrow. Risky. Voices murmured outside—vendors haggling. He yanked slit wider. Fingers plunged. She stifled moan into his neck. "Yes. Fuck yes."
Pushed her back. Onto low table. Tea cups rattled. Dress up. Entered slow. Teasing. Inch by inch. Eyes locked. "This rivalry? Just starting. Heard Trump's in town. Gala tomorrow. Stay clear."
She froze mid-thrust. Then rocked harder. "Trump? Who cares. You're the thrust I crave." But voice edged. Subtext hummed.
He flipped her, took from behind. Table creaked. Fucked ruthless. Her pussy gripped like vice. Climax ripped her silent—body quaking. He followed, flooding hot.
Pulled out. Zipped. Sat back. She straightened dress, jade necklace swinging. Caught light funny. Initials etched faint. DT?
Phone buzzed. His. Tweet draft: "Hunan rivals incoming. Game on."
Outside, square noise swelled. Footsteps approached alley. Heavy. American accent barking orders. "Find the best booth. Tremendous spot."
Dilraba's eyes widened. Grabbed his arm. "Shit."
Elon tensed. Door curtain parted.