flex, and he leans toward me. “Then unbutton your fucking blouse, Catarina.”
Nobody uses my full name—no one—and my formal name on his lips sounds foreign. But I shiver all the same, because it feels like it’s been waiting for him.
I have two choices here. Go home, or see this out.
And I want to see.
It’s my brain getting in the way.
Logic is fighting me, but my lust wins. Don’t I deserve this tiny thing just for me? I take the first risk I’ve taken in a long, long time.
I lean against the glass and slowly pop one button.
“Good girl.” He looks lower. “Keep going.”
It’s easier than I thought after that first one. Another falls away, and then another.
He motions to the gaping fabric. “Now push your breasts above your bra.”
My nipples are hard and aching. Now that I’ve started, I don’t think I can stop, which doesn’t matter, considering stopping is the furthest thing from my mind. I lift my fullness from the satin cups, letting them spill open.
He reaches over and pulls the fabric of my blouse away, leaving me exposed. He rubs his thumbs over the peaks, circling until my head falls against the windows and my eyes close.
One nipple slips into his mouth, his teeth gently scraping it. I reach for him, tangling my fingers into his hair while he sucks.
My back bows, arching into his mouth.
He moves, switching to the other side before pushing my breasts together and licking and nipping back and forth until I think I might go mad.
A sound curls from the back of my throat, fills the humid air.
It’s like torture, sweet and exquisite.
When he pulls away, he blows hot breaths against my nipples before sitting back and saying, “Take off your pants.”
With shaking fingers, I fumble for the button, managing to get them open before pulling them down my legs.
“Your panties.” He nods toward them.
I slip them down my legs, kicking everything to the floor of the truck before sitting back.
He reaches for me, taking one leg and pushing it wide, positioning my foot on the dashboard, so I’m open to him.
He sits back, eyes hot on me. “Perfect.”
I wait.
He watches.
I shift in my seat as heat pulses between my legs.
His eyes flicker. “Tilt your hips up. Let me see how much you want me to touch you.”
I’m committed now, and I have to see, no matter how unlike me any of this is. I tilt, lifting, before releasing and straining up again.
It increases the ache.
I’m open and exposed.
Vulnerable.
I’m begging again, silently in my head, the rise and fall of my hips in cadence with the heady beat of my desire. When I lift the next time, he slides a finger down my wetness, and I freeze, mid lift.
He doesn’t continue.
He leaves me suspended.
A small “please” escapes my lips.
“You’re still thinking too hard.” He runs his fingertip up and down again, nothing but a tease.
“I’m not.”
He leans forward and blows over my heated flesh before kissing me full between my legs. His tongue swirls over my clit, soft and gentle—a glance.
I lift higher, wanting greater contact.
Again he licks, before slipping down where I’m open and needy.
My legs start to shake, and he palms my ass, helping me stay in place for his voracious mouth. Far too quickly an orgasm builds, sitting on the blade of a knife.
I need more pressure to push me over.
I dig my nails into his neck, but it’s no use. He just keeps going.
Long, slow, and leisurely, his mouth slipping over me. I’ve never had a man go down on me like this before—more like a deep, moody kiss instead of the usual flicking tongue.
I circle my hips, moaning now, my panting breaths fogging the windows.
His tongue plays over my clit—circling, pressing, sucking.
He hits a particularly good spot.
I cry out, thrusting my hips against his mouth.
His free hand slides over my mound, slipping two fingers inside and rubbing in slow circles before pulling free. He lifts, reaches behind me, and slides his wet fingers down the crack of my ass before rubbing the puckered skin.
I jump in shock.
I want to protest, but he presses the tip of his finger inside before I can.
I shake my head, try to formulate words, but they don’t come. A strangled sob leaves my throat.
He presses deeper, filling me where I’ve never been filled before.
I want to reject it; it feels wrong.
Yet the dirtier and more wrong it feels, the hotter I get.