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If I didn’t know any better, I would swear that he considered slapping my ass to punish me for my words before changing his mind at the last second.
I’m more than a little disappointed. I would love to have his hands on me, even if it’s just in anger.
As if hearing my thought, when I slow down, Mr. Perry’s hand returns gently to that same spot just inches above my ass to apply force the rest of the walk back.
And since I’m no longer so drunk I’m stumbling, I’m not sure why he does it.
When we reach the parking lot, it’s impossible to miss his ride – a Harley with the chrome shining in the night.
Without waiting for instructions, I throw my leg over the seat, the move hiking my skirt up so far it just barely covers the crotch of my panties.
Mr. Perry notices too. He looks at that space between my legs longer than is polite or appropriate.
“Pull your sweatshirt down,” he says when he finally turns away, grabbing the helmet from the handlebars. I’m doing as he asked when he stuffs the helmet on my head and buckles the chinstrap. It suddenly feels like there’s a live wire between us. Every touch, every look between us, is heated, warming me up all over.
That warm current only grows hotter when Mr. Perry straddles the bike and takes my arms to wrap them around him, making me slide forward. The move hikes up the sweatshirt I didn’t try very hard to pull down. My thighs have nowhere to go other than to cradle his sides. And my sex, covered only by my thin black panties, presses right up against his back.
When he takes off, driving out of the parking lot and onto the empty highway, I can’t help but wonder if this electricity is one-sided or if he feels it too. All I would have to do is lower one of my hands just a few inches to see if he’s aroused.
I don’t do that, mostly because it’s probably all in my head, but also because I don’t want to do anything to startle him and make him crash this death trap.
CHAPTERFOUR
Isaac
Ishould’ve asked the comedy club bartender if they sold sweatpants too. I know they didn’t, but I would’ve paid every dollar on me for Holly to have some pants.
It’s the longest ride of my life.
And while the ride up to the club was frosty, it’s like I can’t get enough wind to cool me down on the way back.
Just a few more miles and I can tuck the girl into my daughter’s bed and finally do something productive – find out where the fucker is with her car.
I am going to find it. I have to. There’s no way I can deal with her clinging to me like this all morning and night, begging me to take her to work.
She said she’s a preschool teacher, for fuck’s sake.
It’s all an act, the slutty clothes, her talking about sleeping with professors and men she meets at gas stations. I don’t buy any of it. She’s a sweet girl who wants chocolate hearts and flowers.
At least that’s what I tell myself the entire way home.
I refuse to let myself think differently because if I do, I could go down a rabbit hole of vulgar thoughts I shouldn’t have about my daughter’s friend. A girl young enough to be my daughter. She’s still a child.
A child who drinks too much, looks too tempting, and would most likely be leaving a wet spot on my back if not for my leather cut.
Finally, after what feels like hours, we pull up at the house, the motion sensor on the outside of the garage lighting the way.
Holly climbs off first and stumbles before she catches herself. I’m right behind her, helping unfasten the helmet’s chin strap while hoping she doesn’t notice the bulge in my jeans that refused to go away the whole way home.
“Thanks,” she says when it’s off, keeping her eyes lowered, her cheeks rosy red from the wind.
Turning toward the garage door that leads to the kitchen, I ask her quietly, “You know which room is Lyla’s, right?”
“I haven’t been here in a while.”
Sighing, I lead the way down the dark hall, in a hurry to get her situated so I can go take myself in my hand. Not to think about her but to think about any of the club girls I pay for services whenever the mood to fuck strikes. It’s not often, not since I lost…
“Thank you for coming to get me. I know you had better things to do tonight,” she says from behind me, snapping me out of those perverted and guilt-ridden thoughts.
