but he won’t let me, planting my hand on the warm metal of the trunk and returning his fingers to my crotch. He just rests them there, his knuckles rubbing, working the fabric over my heated skin, getting it wet, finding proof that I’m not just a girl who claims to want it. I do want it.
I push up so I can work a hand beneath his T-shirt, the skin of his belly, his hip, his back, hot against my palm. I scrape my nails up so I can anchor us together, using him for balance as I slip my other hand between us, feeling the soft rub of the denim, the smooth cotton of his briefs, then, finally, him.
He hisses when I grip him roughly, tugging hard, punishment for making me wait. He gets the hint and pushes two fingers into my panties, tormenting me.
“Do it,” I order. “Hurry.”
He buries his face in the side of my neck, and I feel his lips on the delicate skin, his teeth, the suction. He’s going to leave a mark. That might be a problem if I had somewhere to be tomorrow, but I don’t. There’s no one to tease me. No one to pry. No one for anything at all.
Finally, he pushes a finger inside, making me shudder. He knows what he’s doing, what he’s looking for, and when he finds it he rubs. Hard.
I tremble and writhe against the sensation.
A second finger joins the first, and I shove him away from my neck and fist my hands in his shirt, burying my face against his chest, overwhelmed and consumed. He chuckles and strokes my back with his free hand, a strangely consoling gesture when his other hand is causing so much agony.
“Please!” I feel sweat on my temples and the nape of my neck, my spine damp. “Please.”
“Back pocket,” he mumbles into my hair, and it takes me a second to realize it’s an instruction. He’s merciful enough to take that demonic hand away so I can focus, get my bearings, and reach into the pocket of his sagging jeans to retrieve his wallet. The condom is easy to grab and I toss the wallet on the trunk and open the packet. He rolls it on and hooks both arms under my knees, yanking so I have to catch myself on my elbows when I fall back. I’m wearing every item of clothing I started with and so is he, but they’re no obstacle when he snags a finger under my panties and pulls them aside. He strokes me briefly, then guides himself in, more gently than I’m expecting.
I drop my head back, watching the sky, the stars, the moon. I feel him. I feel how soft his clothes are against the inside of my knees, the scrape of the hair on his thighs as it chafes against mine, the heaviness of him inside me. He moves slowly at first, but never tentatively. His dark eyes are open and watching, and while I normally keep my eyes closed, this time I can’t look away.
He leans in and places one hand on the trunk next to my ribs, giving himself leverage to go harder, deeper. He’s moving faster, but still not fast, exactly. The way he’s looking at me says he believes me now. He believes I’m the kind of girl who fucks strangers. Who doesn’t do next time. And he’s making sure I don’t forget this one.
He moves harder. Faster. He plants a forearm next to my head. I can smell him; sweat and laundry detergent. No expensive cologne, no hair products. His five o’clock shadow scrapes my cheek and I wince, but I don’t complain. I just feel it.
He kisses me, messy and unfocused. He seems like the kind of man who should be out here, who does things earthy and raw, who has dirt under his nails and knows how to change a tire and fuck a woman and not ask too many questions.
I wonder who he thinks I am.
The question makes me explode. I knew I was close, but I’m still not ready for the tremors that overtake me, transforming into overwhelming waves that make my muscles lock and unlock, my lungs emptying in a startled cry. My hips jerk against his and he groans, the sound deep and heartfelt, as though my orgasm permitted his own, like he was waiting for me.
I hate it when a man collapses on top of me after sex, but when