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“Here.” It’s one word, one single word, but he whispers it in that deep, sensual voice of his and it feels like a thrust into my starving core.
“But…but we’re in public.”
“So?”
“Anyone can see.”
“And?”
“That’s not right.”
“All the best things aren’t, beautiful.”
I can’t think of a reply, because he’s cupping me through my panties and their soaked with so much arousal, it’s strange and exciting at the same time.
“Hmm. You’re wet at the thought of being fucked in public.”
“No…”
“No? Your cunt that’s dripping due to the promise alone would argue otherwise. Do you like the thought of someone showing up and watching?”
“I don’t…”
“Good. Do you know why?” He pulls down my panties, so that they join my pants, and exposes my pussy; however, I still think he’ll back down and end the madness.
But I should’ve known better.
Knox and madness go hand in hand.
Sometimes,heis the madness.
He’s that piece of insanity that makes the most sense.
The foolishness in the midst of logic.
That’s how it feels now. So right and wrong at the same time.
The only right thing in the wrong.
The sound of his own zipper echoes in the air in the small nook behind the restaurant where anyone could pass by. Where any staff member could step out the door to throw something away or take a smoke break.
And I think he’s right. The possibility alone makes me wetter, stickier, messier.
He’s the reason why I’m this way. I was always a goody two shoes. A wallflower. Boring and mild.
Hell, I thought I would only like sex with the lights off and on scheduled days.
And no, those fantasies I had about being held down and fucked don’t count.
But he proved that they do. Very much so.
Ever since that first time, he’s provoked that part of me I reserved for nightmares. He’s taught me that I want more than mild and boring. That sex without lights and on Saturdays isn’t enough.
That sex isn’t enough.
I prefer fucking. Primal, rough, and out of control.
I prefer relinquishing all control and not thinking, even though we’re in public.
