Page 53

“Next time I’m putting a chain on you.”

She laughs. Right in my mouth. Breathless and wrecked and laughing, and her pussy squeezes my cock when she does it, and I almost come right there.

I fuck her.

I hold her by her hips and slam her down on me, again and again, hard, the whole car rocking on its wheels. She bounces in my lap. Her ass slaps my thighs. Every time she comes down on me, I’m buried in her so deep I can feel the end of her, and every time I pull her up, her pussy drags along me like it’s trying to keep me. The windows fog up. The car smells like sex and sugar and her coconut hair. She’s moaning so loud Misha can probably hear it over the ocean, and I don’t fucking care.

Heat’s crawling up my spine. My balls are tight against my body. My thighs are shaking under her.

“Sasha… Sasha… I’m gonna…”

I grab the back of her neck and pull her face down to mine and fuck up into her harder.

She comes on my cock with her mouth on mine. I feel it before I hear it. Her whole body locks up in my hands, her pussy clamping down on me in hard, hot, rippling pulses, squeezing me so tight I can’t move, and then she screams into my mouth, and I swallow it.

Then I’m gone.

It rips up my spine and out of me so hard my whole body bucks under her. I slam her down on my cock and hold her there and come. Deep. Hard. Pulse after pulse, pumping into her, emptying everything I have, my hips jerking up into her with every one. Her pussy keeps fluttering around me, milking me, pulling every drop out of me. I can feel how full she is. I can feel it hot and slick around my cock where we’re joined.

I keep her there. I don’t let her up. I hold her down on me with both hands, and she collapses on my chest, and we sit there in that dark, fogged-up car with the ocean roaring outside, breathing.

She’s got powdered sugar on my jacket. On my shirt. On my neck.

“Sasha?” she mumbles into my chest.

“What.”

“I want another funnel cake.”

* * *

Nine days later, she turns in her last final.

I’m waiting outside Rolfe Hall at four-oh-five. Not Misha. Me. In the car, in the fire lane. She comes down the steps with her bag over her shoulder, and she sees me through the windshield, and she stops on the bottom step.

Then she smiles.

My whole body goes hot. She doesn’t smile at me. She glares, and she cusses, and she laughs when she can’t help it. But she doesn’t smile at me like that. Like she’s glad. Like she’s been waiting.

She gets in the passenger seat.

“How was it?” I ask her.

“I killed it.” She puts on her seatbelt. “Where we going?”

“Home.”

“Bel Air’s that way.”

“Not that home.”

She looks at me sideways. I pull out of the fire lane and head for Van Nuys, where my jet’s been fueled since noon.

* * *

It’s past midnight when we land in Watsonville. The fog’s so thick my pilot’s cussing in two languages. She’s awake the whole drive up the coast with her face pressed to the window, and she doesn’t say one word.

Dylan Jackson. Quiet. For forty minutes.