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Tell me when to stop.
I blew out a slow breath.
If you don’t let me kiss you, I’ll die.
I rolled my neck and heard a satisfying pop, then kept reading until I got to a few more of the situational prompts. My screen slowed when I read one in particular, and I felt it. Rusty gears clicking into motion, a plot bunny sent racing before I could stop it.
He puts a blanket over your lap, and you tell him you’re not cold. His eyes lock onto yours, and his hand slips underneath the blanket, big fingers spanning the width of your thigh. “It’s not for the cold. Now you better keep quiet,” he whispers into your ear. “Someone might see.” His hand starts to move.
My document was open before I knew what I was doing. Just like I always did before I started, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and wiggled my fingers over the keyboard. The only sound that penetrated my brain was the running water of the shower down the hallway past the kitchen.
My eyes snapped open, a line of puzzle pieces clicking neatly into place. And then my fingers flew.
The scene unfolded in my mind, sights and scents and sounds vivid and whirring through the dusty parts of my brain, and my mouth moved along with the motion of my hands. It was a drive-in movie, the spacious cab of a truck, lights and sounds coming from in front of the vehicle, commotion everywhere as people wove in and out of the parking lot.
Old-fashioned commercials played on the screen, and the razor-sharp sense of the forbidden had my skin feeling tight. Like Bea instructed, I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t stop to self-edit or worry about what comes next. I thought about rough hands and a big, heavy palm on soft, silky skin. Of panting breaths and the struggle to keep facial expressions hidden.
Anyone could see.
Anyone could walk by.
His fingers moved past the lace barrier underneath and then stopped.
Heart pounding in my chest, the flush of heat on my cheeks felt like I was there. Squirming on the bench seat, trying to get him to move, move, move. His nose dragged along my cheekbone.
So impatient, he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. One hand tucked a stray piece of hair off my cheek, lingering on the edge of my jaw. My eyes fluttered closed from that small touch. Then he brushed his fingertip against the front of my panties so lightly that I almost screamed, and I clutched his wrist, trying to force him to move.
A man walked past the car and peered in. I kept my face even. So did he. We were motionless, not so much as a ripple of movement underneath the blanket.
The scene poured out of me, and I swear I must have blacked out from the sheer relief of words, so many words. The things I was writing hardly even registered as they came out so seamlessly.
The clunking sound of the shower shutting off snapped me back to reality, and I sat back on a gasp.
I blinked a few times, absolutely stunned to see that I’d done eighteen hundreds words in such a short amount of time. My mouth stretched in a grin, and I tipped my head back on a laugh.
Resting my elbow on the table, I set my chin in my hand and scrolled back to the beginning to read what I’d written. I blew out a slow breath because, honestly, I did pretty damn good at the steamy stuff, considering I didn’t have a ton of practice.
Scary scenes? All the damn time.
Stabby scenes? Sure.
Orgasm-y scenes? Not so much.
I exhaled a laugh when I realized the POV of the character changed from third person in the beginning—she pressed her thighs together when his pinky brushed the inside of her thigh—to first person only a few short sentences later—I clutched his thick wrist, tugging it without thinking, and bit back a loud moan when his finger hooked around the elastic on my panties.
“Someone needs to get laid,” I muttered under my breath. And I did. Relationships didn’t just take a back seat in New York; we weren’t even riding in the same damn car. Without my vibrator and a vivid imagination, my poor, neglected brain would’ve forgotten what an orgasm felt like to be able to describe it. Hell, I wouldn’t have been surprised if my OB found cobwebs down there during my physical.
But this? This didn’t read like a neglected single mom whose last sexual experience took place in a different decade.
As I kept reading, the description shifted a bit, a clever little carousel that rotated between what he was doing between my legs, some pretty damn good physical descriptions of pleasure, the sights and sounds of the drive-in, and then they shifted. To him.
My smile dropped, and my heart thudded painfully when I got a little further. The veins on his forearms and a light blue cotton shirt. The smell of fir trees and the scrape of a dark beard against my jaw.
My mouth went dry, and I covered my lips with a suddenly trembling hand. Blood pumped hot through my veins, and all I could hear was the whooshing of my screaming pulse in my ears. Because it just kept getting worse.
An unsmiling mouth hovered over mine while I silently gasped through my orgasm, praising me with whispered words, that I was a good girl, that I’d done well.
My heart pounded like a jackhammer against my ribs, so loud and so hard, that my breaths came in choppy bursts.
