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Anne couldn’t help it. She moaned at Quincy’s words, the lewd noise slipping from parted lips and falling upon eager ears. Quincy’s expression didn’t flicker in the slightest as he pressed his fingers against the heat between her legs. Anne squirmed under him, but he refused to release her hands. Using his own legs, he parted hers, making it harder for her to move those limbs as well. She was pinned under him, as helpless as a newborn kitten, and mewling like one, too.
“There’s no point in lying, I can see it written all over your face,” Quincy murmured, beginning to move his fingers up and down. Occasionally he rolled them in a little circle, but it was never truly enough to give her true satisfaction. Her hips moved against his hand, seeking more of that release that he was promising her, but was refusing to deliver through with. “Come home with me,” Quincy said, his tone nearly turning pleading. “I’ll show you what it’s like to truly be claimed by somebody. To truly feel a possessive cock like mine,” he breathed, pressing his fingers down with more pressure to accentuate his words.
Anne’s back arched, and if Quincy didn’t know better, he would have thought that she had finished without even the slightest hint of clothing being taken off. Her eyes had glossed over, and she stared out into the distance for so long that Quincy was almost afraid that he had hurt her. But then she came back to reality, and gave Quincy a broad grin, more confident than he had seen her in the short time that he had known her.
“Let’s go,” she said, an urgency in her voice that she was not familiar with. “I want to know what it’s like.”
Quincy’s smirk dissolved into a soft smile, and he grabbed Anne by the shoulders, finally releasing her. He pulled her body up, and crashed their lips together in a heated kiss that was all teeth and tongues.
Chapter Seven
The trip back to town was a short one, but one that seemed to take all too long for Anne’s liking. They walked through the town, Anne trailing after Quincy with her hand in his, and her face turned down to the pavement. She couldn’t stand the thought of running into someone that she knew, not with the way she looked. Even if there were no marks on her, and even if they hadn’t truly done much, it was clear what had happened between them at the park. Anne shuddered just thinking about it.
Quincy’s hands had been strong and sure, certain of exactly where they belonged and what he needed to do when. It was as though he had known Anne’s body for far longer than just a day. He didn’t even truly know her body, only knowing the basics about it and treating her as though he might treat another woman.
Anne knew that she wasn’t Quincy’s first, but she shivered at the thought that maybe Quincy would be her first if all went well. Her friends had always teased her, claiming that saving-for-marriage was in the past. It wasn’t as though Anne was saving herself solely for marriage, but she was saving herself until she knew that she was absolutely ready. With Quincy in front of her, his warm hand around hers, and the lingering feeling of their lips pressed together, Anne knew that she was absolutely ready. There was not a doubt in her mind about what needed to happen between the two of them.
“Do you drive a motorcycle?” she asked, looking up at Quincy.
He didn’t look back at Anne, but he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Why? Is that another part of your sick, twisted fantasy?” he teased.
Anne blushed even darker than before, so she didn’t justify Quincy’s question with an answer. Instead, she looked back down at the ground. At the giant footprints that Quincy left in front of her in the mushy snow, softened by the bright sun.
It didn’t take long before Quincy turned them down some strange alley, and at first, Anne was afraid that she had been tricked. Cold ice rushed through her veins, and she nearly tried to pull her hand away from Quincy’s, but there it was.
Parked in a corner of the alleyway, behind a dumpster and safe from view, was Quincy’s bike. At least, Anne assumed that it was his. The Harley was beautiful—a polished and gleaming black that shined like the best of chrome. Anne trailed her fingers over it, and Quincy watched with a smile. He took pride in his baby, having saved up for her for over three years. In the end, all of the crappy day jobs had been worth it, if not only for the reactions he got when he blazed down the street, leaving only a butterfly-like trail of headlights.
“Beautiful,” Anne whispered, in complete awe.
Quincy smiled at her, and hopped onto the motorcycle, patting the spot behind him. “I’ve got a helmet and spare jacket in the side pockets, but them on. And some gloves, too,” he advised. “Going down the freeway at seventy-five an hour gets a little chilly.”
Anne nodded, getting on the bike behind Quincy. She felt another blush go through her, what with her body pressed so tightly against Quincy’s so intimately. She dug through the side pockets, and quickly found the helmet and jacket. She pulled both on, and then found a spare set of gloves in the other side-bag. They were almost like saddlebags, but Anne didn’t have much time to mull it over. As soon as she had her helmet on, Quincy tugged on his and the motorcycle flared to life, roaring out of the little alleyway.
On their way out, they nearly hit an innocent passerby, and Anne gave a little wave to try and nullify some of the harsh words being shot their way. Her world was mostly cut off by the helmet, even sound was dulled by the thick padding around her ears. It made her head feel lopsided and heavy, but it made it all the better for leaning against Quincy’s back as he drove.
Anne could feel the muscles in his back working as his arms twisted and maneuvered the front end of the Harley to twist the powerful machine to his will. Anne closed her eyes and grinned, happy enough with only the feeling of Quincy pressing up against her, and the contact of their bodies closer than ever before. Not even their time in the park could compare to being on the back of his bike, every ounce of trust that Anne had in her body poured into Quincy.
Chapter Eight
In only two hours, Anne was inside of Quincy’s run-down apartment, and thrown up against his wall. He had barely waited to shut and bolt the door before turning to Anne with the single intent of taking her as his own. He wanted to feel every inch of her body, and to revel in the feeling of her hot clutch. Her dress, being a stretchy enough material, was pulled over her head. The college woman was left in only her bra and leggings, and Quincy pounced.
Anne’s moans in his ears, Quincy buried his face into Anne’s tits. They were small, but perfect in his hands and pliable under his fingers. Her nipples hardened up in no time, and Quincy grinned against her porcelain flesh.
In the back of his mind, the time ticked down until his parole officer would show up to check on him. Prior arrangements made having true relations hard to handle, but he would figure it out in some way. Surely his parole officer would understand—there was no reason to get bent out of shape about a guy taking a few hours to enjoy himself for once in more than five years.
“Oh, God, Quincy, don’t stop,” Anne begged, brining Quincy back to the present.
Anne’s fingers were lacing through his hair, tugging here and there and providing a whole new set of sparks that raced up and down Quincy’s body. He couldn’t resist the way he pulled aside the cotton cup of her bra, and latched onto one perky nipple with his hungry mouth. Quincy rolled the bud in his lips, using the tip of his tongue to trace little patterns in the soft skin that had Anne panting desperately and needing more and more with every instant.
Despite her obvious and wanton need, Quincy refrained himself from going too far. From the corner of his eyes, he could see the clock on the kitchen microwave. Noon. On the dot. His parole officer would turn up in a few moments to check on Quincy and make sure that he hadn’t run off during the day. Little did the fat, stupid man know, but Quincy ran away every day whenever he could. Of course, he was back by check-in time so it didn’t truly count, but it gave him a sense of freedom.
As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. Quincy pulled away from Anne’s breast, and the girl groaned. She was pouting, and if it weren’t for the demanding police officer right outside of the thin door, Quincy might have said fuck it all and gone back to what he was doing. He pulled Anne’s bra back into place, and looked her in the eye.
“My parole officer is here. Go into my bedroom and stay there. Be quiet,” he instructed.
Anne wanted to laugh at Quincy for making up such a ridiculous lie after toying with her in the same way at the park, but she could tell that he was being serious. There was no hint of humor in his expression. Although he was good at hiding his emotions, he wasn’t that good at it. Anne dipped down and picked up her dress, and then retreated down the hallway. Quickly, but silently, Anne slipped into the bedroom, and sat down on the mattress that she found there. It was on the floor, and the sheets smelled like sweat and stale smoke, but it smelled so much like Quincy that it was hard to complain about.
Anne heard the door open, and she strained to hear past anything more than simply the casual murmuring of voices through thin walls. She couldn’t hear any of the words, but she could easily pick up on the two tones of the voices. One, calm and collected, she assumed was Quincy. The other was short and snappy, his supposed parole officer. Anne wanted to poke her head out of the door, to see if it truly was an officer that Quincy was meeting with, or if he was simply pulling her leg. Somehow, just in the same way that she had known that he hadn’t been joking, Anne knew that Quincy wasn’t lying.
