He pulls my body tighter against his chest, one hand dropping to my clit while the other wraps around my throat, holding me steady.
And then he pounds into me.
Fuck.
Each stroke drives the breath from my lungs. My pussy clamps around him, gripping like I’m afraid to let him go. His fingers rub relentless circles over my clit, sending sparks behind my eyes, my body caught between pleasure and pain.
“Say you want it,” he rasps. “Say it.”
“I want it,” I sob, trembling now. “Please, don’t stop.”
“Too late for stopping now.”
He fucks me like he’s trying to brand himself into my bones. And I let him.
Because I’m close, so close I can’t hold it in. My legs tremble violently, barely holding me up. My thighs lock around him, muscles clenching tight as the pressure snaps. My mouth falls open, and then everything breaks as my vision goes white.
I scream his name as the orgasm hits me like a wave, ripping through my body with brutal force. My pussy spasms around him, pulsing, dragging him with me.
He groans, voice hoarse, and thrusts once more, before he stills.
I feel it. The heat of him spilling inside me, his cock twitching as he comes hard, holding me against him like he can’t bear to let me go.
His forehead rests against the back of my shoulder. We’re both panting, spent, skin slick and burning.
The night is still. The only sound is our ragged breathing.
Neither of us speaks for a long time.
Trucks thunder past on the highway, their headlights briefly illuminating the car before disappearing back into darkness.
Then he steps away.
The sudden emptiness makes me shiver. I keep my hands flat against the car, legs shaking, trying to catch my breath. My dress is twisted around my waist, and I can feel everything he left behind.
I hear him moving behind me, the car door opening and closing. When he comes back, he’s holding something from the glove compartment.
“Turn around.”
I do, slowly, using the car for support. My legs feel like water.
He kneels in front of me without a word, pushing my thighs apart with gentle hands. I start to protest, but then I see what he’s doing.
He’s cleaning me. I bite the inside of my cheek. Not because it hurts, but because the tenderness of it is worse. He doesn’t look up at my face; he just focuses on what he’s doing, like this is normal for him.
After he’s finished, he reaches for my bag, pulls out a fresh pair of panties, and holds them for a moment in one hand before glancing at the ruined ones still tangled around my knees. He unlocks my ankle cuffs, pulls my panties off completely, tosses them into a compartment in the car that clicks closed, then slides the new panties up my legs before locking me up again.
He stands, and his gaze drifts to my chest. The fabric of my dress is still rucked down, exposing skin flushed from sex and cool night air.
He steps closer, cups one breast, then the other, his palms warm against me. His mouth lowers. A brush of tongue, the faint tug of a nipple between his lips. One side, then the other.
He smooths the dress back into place with both hands, then straightens.
Something in my throat tightens.
He leans into the car and grabs a water bottle. I take it. Rinse. Spit. Splash my face.
A hand lifts the hair from my cheek, brushing a few damp strands behind my ear. Then he pulls out a small wrapped candy bar and presses it into my palm.
