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Just as he thinks it, he finds himself brushing his knuckles over her scar, down to her angular jawline.
A slave to his touch, she leans into him. She cherishes the tender moment, because of those they will have few left.
Summer’s end will come. And so will theirs.
Clumsily, Billie reaches out for the steering wheel and the back of his seat. The water bottle drops onto the floor as she climbs over to him and lowers herself onto his lap.
Without nearly as much grace or patience, she yanks his shades off and tosses them aside.
Preston has barely a moment to smirk before her mouth crashes against his.
His lips turn against hers, a smile as he slides his hands along her thighs. “Did you have to wear shorts?” he murmurers, hands curving up and around the slight swell of her smooth ass.
Billie drags her teeth over his bottom lip. She releases it with a grin. “Hasn’t stopped us before.”
His grip tightens on her ass, lifting her up an inch or so.
She follows his cue and, reaching down between them, tugs on the button of his pants.
How many times they’ve come out here to Lover’s Lookout, she’s had enough practice to now effortlessly flick the button undone, pull down the zipper and tug his cock free in a few seconds. The weight of it hits against her just as he brings her back down on his lap.
Billie’s hand is quick to reach for his cock—
But he hits her hand aside, then snatches up her neck.
Preston holds firm and brings his mouth to hers. Just a graze of the lips before his free hand slides its way from her ass, over her smooth thigh, to the crotch of her jean-shorts. He grazes his fingertips alongside the hem.
Her breath hitches.
So trained to his touch—his practiced touch now tailored to her, toplayher—her core tenses with a flutter of excitement. He hooks his finger around the edge of the denim and slides it aside, taking her panties with it.
Preston doesn’t waste time. He never does. And he flicks his touch over her warm opening.
She breaths a sigh of relief against his full, soft lips.
With every flick and graze, he prepares her. He builds and gathers her wetness and circles around that one spot that craves his touch most of all.
But he only teases it.
A frustrated noise escapes her.
The impatience shows the jerk of her hips.
He grins against her lips.
Her hips move again. She doesn’t jerk in protest or desperation, but starts to rock gently over his hand, and he meets her movements, gliding his fingers over her wet slit and twirling them around her bud.
Plays her like a fucking violin.
But still, he doesn’t touch it.
Preston’s hand on her neck loosens. Fingertips and palm start to graze up to the underside of her chin.
The shift forces her head to tilt back and steals away her view of him, the warmth of his smooth complexion, the thickness of his dark curls she only ever wants to bury her hand in, those pitch-black eyes she needs to fall away into.
Now, her head is tilted back and she shuts her eyes.
Rocking back and forth on this touch, she tightens her twisting fists on his t-shirt, almost tearing at the fabric.
