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Lincoln’s fingers slip under my dress, pumping into me as I gasp, my breath fogging the window. “You like being fucked with my fingers while he fucks her with his tongue?” He speaks into my ear, nipping on the lobe. His thumb presses down on my clit as his fingers move simultaneously inside of me. I nod. “And why is that?” he rasps.
I don’t answer as he curls his fingers inside of me, hitting my sweet spot. I watch as the man undoes his belt, pulling his pants down to his ankles, and enters her in one quick move. I moan, not sure if it’s from the show in front of me or the sensations being inflicted on me.
Lincoln removes his fingers, pushing me up so he can work his pants down. I sit back down on him, allowing the thick hardness to penetrate inside me, making me cry out from the new position. I watch the other couple as they savagely fuck each other. Not caring that everyone can see them. A new kink I don’t know about, maybe.
Lincoln holds his belt in front of my mouth, rubbing it on my lips to coax them open. “Bite down, Doll face.”
I do, letting the rich taste of leather sit on my tongue as it tightens in my mouth. And then he fucks me. Hard thrusts, hitting deep inside me, the leather masking my cries of pleasure as I grow wet. I grow wet from him, fucking me in this public place while I watch someone else. It feels euphoric. Earth-shattering. I watch the woman arch against the leather seat in the back of her car, the man bending down and biting onto her nipple. I watch her orgasm take over her, fueling my own. I come with the woman beside me. Both our bodies shaking while we get fucked. And when the other couple is done, the lady turns to our truck and winks at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Journal entry: If it feels wrong, it usually is.
The days pass by quickly,and on Friday, when we have to leave, with both of us having an important event tomorrow, I grow sad. I want to stay in this bubble with my teacher forever. One where we can be in public together. Not having to hide who we are. I dread going back to closed doors and sneaking around the school. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it, but after the freedom of having something normal, it’s not what I want.
“Where are you going to college?” he asks, trying to fill the silence of the long car drive and make the sadness I leaked into the air evaporate.
“I’m not sure. I’m still not sure what I want to do with my life, honestly. I may not even want to go to college.” I shrug. It wasn’t a lie. I could be a teacher, but after grading all the papers, I get bored. I definitely don’t get a hard-on like my teacher over here when I hold the red pen between my fingers and make kids cry. I do love fashion, though. I could design or be a personal stylist. Maybe open a boutique. Endless possibilities, really. I look over to him, my lipstick staining his neck and shirt, making me grin. I loved marking him as much as he loved marking me. “Would you ever consider coming with me?”
“To college?”
“Yeah.” I hate being vulnerable, hate being rejected. I never put myself in situations like this, but I want to know. I want to know if maybe what I feel for him, he finally feels for me.
He thinks for a minute. One hand on the steering wheel and the other tightly gripped in my hand. “Yeah. I don’t have anything keeping me here once you’re gone.”
“You mean that?” I whisper, my heart filling with instant adoration.
He shrugs, “I’ve grown to like you, I guess.” He looks over at me, grinning and winking at me. “So, wherever you go, I’ll come with you. I already told you…” He brings my hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles. “I can’t let you go.”
This man is going to wreck me, I can feel it.
“Can I ask you something?’
He nods. “I suppose.”
“Why do you have ravens tattooed on you?”
He smiles. I bet his smoky eyes twinkle with a smile like that, but he has them hidden behind his sunglasses. “Have you ever read the poem “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe?”
I think about the depressing poet, knowing I’ve had to read something by him for school. “I don’t think I’ve read that one.”
“It’s my favorite. I’ll have to read it to you one day.”
“Why is it your favorite?” I ask.
“Have you ever heard a song, or read a line in a book that speaks to your soul? Feels like the author wrote it for you. As if, maybe, you were always supposed to read it? Or the beat of the song and the lyrics were crafted from your soul? You feel such a strong connection to it, you have it burned into your very being?”
I nod. I can’t really speak out loud what that is for me. Knowing “Don’t Blame Me” by Taylor Swift can’t compare to a famous poem. “Yeah. So, why that poem?”
“The poem is about grief. The undying pain we live in when we lose someone close to us. How it changes who we are, who we could have become. The physical control it has over your mind. How we think and speak. How we live. How the pain is physical. How we can feel it on a soul-shattering level. How we go mad with it.”
“Your dad?” I ask softly.
He nods. “Yes.”
“Do you think we can mourn someone who is in our lives as well?”
“I—” He pauses to think. “Yeah, I don’t see why not.”
