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Sara
The doors slam shut,closing Chris and me inside his car alone now that my friends are gone. Excitement and anticipation replace the flutter of sadness in my chest. Chris is staring at me, eyes hot and heavy in a look that shoots straight down to my core.
I should be content with my vibrator. Chris is the complicated choice, and no matter how much I want him, it would be insane to start something.
And yet, maybe he’s actually kind of perfect. We’re going our separate ways soon, and sleeping with Chris would be reckless and wild and totally out of the ordinary for me.
Sure, being a heartthrob rock star doesn’t automatically mean he’ll be good in bed. But in less than a year, I’ll be back in Texas, back to my life in the suburbs in my simple house, teaching yoga. I might reflect back on this for the rest of my life as the wildest, hottest thing I’ve ever done.
Chris sprawls in the driver’s seat, his legs spread, and with a passing glance, you’d think he’s relaxed. His eyes tell a different story. The heat I feel reflects back at me. His left hand grips the steering wheel, those long fingers tight and white from the pressure. And he’s hard, his erection straining at his pants.
I flick my gaze back up to his face, and we stare at each other.
One heartbeat.
Two.
We both rush forward, clashing in the middle. Chris’s mouth is hot on mine, his tongue invading and a hand on the back of my head, pulling me to him. He tastes like mint, and when I suck on his tongue, the growl he emits makes my core clench.
“Fuck, Sara,” he groans between kisses. “Get over here.”
He half-pulls, half-helps me climb over the center console. It’s broad daylight, and the cramped space is slowly expanding as Chris reclines the seat with the push of a button. My knees are on his ribs, our groins flush, his erection fitting just perfectly where I need it. I hang onto his neck, and I’m so worked up we’re barely kissing. It’s more like grinding and breathing together. We could be teenagers in the back seat with this kind of behavior.
Jesus H Christ, I want him so badly.
So badly it’s embarrassing.
“It’s been a while for me.” As if that will excuse the way I’m humping him in public.
“Me too,” Chris says. Fully reclined now, the seat still doesn’t give us much room, but it does free his hands, and he runs his fingers through my hair and kisses me again. “Like, months.”
I pull back too far, and my ass hits the horn on the steering wheel, emitting a loud beep. Out the window, I see a woman loading luggage into her car turn to stare at us. At least the windows are tinted enough, so she probably can’t see us.
I think.
But it wakes me up, and I ungracefully roll back over to the passenger seat.
“Excuse me? Months?”
Chris wipes his face with his hands and then reaches for the button to raise the seat again. It slowly starts its motorized ascent.
“Yeah, months. How long has it been for you?”
“Um, years.”
Chris stares. Then grips his dick through his pants, squeezing it hard and falling forward, making the car beep again.
He swears in German. “Why is that so hot?” He starts the car. “When we get home, I’m going to make you come. A lot. On my face, on my fingers, on my dick.” He swears again. His head hits the steering wheel. Repeatedly.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Put your seatbelt on,” I tell him. “And stop with the honking. Someone’s going to recognize you.”
Chris buckles his seatbelt and peels out of the parking space. I grip the door handle and tense as we make the turn onto the street. It’s not about Chris’s driving, although maybe I should be worried that he’s thinking with his dick right now.
But really, all I can think about is sitting on his face.
To his credit, Chris focuses on driving. A few minutes in, Chris reaches over and takes the hand that was clenched on my knee and threads his fingers through mine. It’s sweet, even though he’s still tense.
