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Fingertips dig into the sides of her neck. The promise of bruises bite at her skin.
He slams into her, harder and harder with each thrust.
Billie grunts from the impact, her hands reaching out to grab onto whatever parts of the car she can, her foot pressing against the edge of the steering wheel—it’s all she can do to just stay in place as he fucks her.
His groans start to deepen, growing harsher as his pace shifts into something erratic, off-rhythm.
Billie doesn’t get the chance to smile. Something she can’t help but do each time she gets him wound up like this, like she’s proud of what she does to him or something, she doesn’t know. But before the smile can widen, his hand leaves her neck and snatches up against her face.
Billie feels the pressure of his fingertips against her skin, parting her lips for him as he brings himself down on her.
His eyes never leave her face.
He doesn’t stop watching her, and the moment she flicks out her tongue for his fingertips, a guttural sound rises through him, something raw and animalistic.
He slams in and in and in—never leaving her fully, like he can’t bear to not be buried inside her.
It’s sweaty, it’s dirty, it’s rough.
It’s them.
And Preston brings his mouth crashing down on hers as the rising pleasure suddenly bursts through them both—
Their mouths muffle their shouts.
He jerks against her. Pushing further inside her. Once. Twice. Thrice—
Then, as though the life is tugged out of him like a thread pulled, he slumps against her with a groan that rumbles his chest.
Billie’s stuck beneath him.
But she’s happily trapped in her own aftershock of a double climax.
Her leg drapes limp over the steering wheel, her hand slipping away from the glovebox she was holding onto for dear life.
She lets her arm drop to hang off the seat. Her fingertips graze the plastic of her water bottle. She scratches at it until it falls into her clammy grip.
And she corks the lid.
Preston stiffens against her.
He’s still for a beat.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he pushes up and—not looking at her—fastens himself up.
Billie rights herself on the passenger seat. But before she pulls on the jean-shorts he hands her, she brings the bottle to her mouth.
Preston just looks away and runs the back of his hand over his knitted brow.
She drinks.
5
MAY 1991
Bodies hitting an old leather seat should have thudded. Not slapped down with the sound of disturbed sludge. But that was exactly the noise Henry Maxwell made when the girls heaved him into the wagon’s dirt-covered trunk.
Kate twisted her mouth as she looked down at her bloody hands.
