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“That’s because you can’t keep it down,” Whit says.
“How can I when you fuck me so good,” I reply and lean against the seat and palm my cock. “Don’t be mad, baby. Love your cock.”
Whit flushes, gripping tightly to the steering wheel and biting down on his lower lip. God, he looks good like this. Horny and hot for me. I love knowing how I affect him.
Suddenly, his phone buzzes, and he lifts it from its place in the cupholder. The flushed look he wore a moment ago disappears, and he pales. Concerned, I glance at him and watch as he lifts his knee and starts driving the car with it as he texts back.
“Everything okay?” I ask as he sets it back down.
“Yes,” he says, but it doesn’t sound very convincing. That and his fingers are tapping nervously on the steering wheel.
His phone buzzes again, and he picks it up again, responding quickly before shoving it under his thigh.
“Want me to text back for you?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“I’ve got it.”
“Is it your parents?”
“No,” he responds curtly, and I hold up my hands and let it go. After this amazing weekend, I don’t want to start anything right now. I just want to ride the bliss into tomorrow. I sneak looks at him, though, and he looks both angry and upset. Anxious too.
Shit. This can’t be good. Usually, he's upset when he hears from his parents, but it's nothing like this.
Then his phone rings, and he cringes, holding the phone up to his ear and talking abruptly in Romanian. His voice is terse and clipped, and he’s gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles are white. The conversation continues for longer than I expect, Whit’s voice rising with each word.
And when he finally hangs up, he slams his phone into the cup holder and shouts, “Fuck!”
The swear word coupled with him yelling has me reaching over and running a hand down his thigh. He’s trembling.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
He breathes deeply through his nose, his nostrils flaring, and says, “Nothing. I just need…fuck! FUCK! FUCK THIS!”
He hits the steering wheel twice and then breathes deeply again, trying to get control over his emotions.
“Hey, pull over, babe. Let me drive,” I say, really worried now. He’s never had an outburst like this before.
Whit inhales deeply through his nose again and shakes his head. “I’m fine. I'm fine. I just need to think.Let me think.”
He breathes deeply, calming himself, but I see the tremble in his limbs, how he’s tapping a nervous rhythm against one thigh. And he’s silent the entire ride home, not looking at me once. Not reaching for me. It’s like I’ve ceased to exist.
When we finally get home, Whit shoots out of the car, grabs our bags, and takes the steps to the apartment two at a time.
He opens the door, tosses the suitcases inside, grabs his phone, and begins tapping on that damn screen again. What the fuck is going on?
“I have to go out. I’ll be back,” he says without looking at me.
“Why?” Now, I’m really starting to lose my shit. “Where you going?”
Whitfinallylooks at me, those dark eyes wild with some emotion I can’t name.
“I’ll be back.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m left in our empty apartment, confused and apprehensive about what this all means. I find myself unpacking our clothes and pacing the apartment, waiting for him to return. But he doesn’t. One hour turns into two. Then three.
I end up dozing on the couch when a sound wakes me.
“Whit?” I ask, sitting up quickly, and I see Whit standing in front of me, a frown on his face.
