“You don’t have to—”
“I think it was on my mind when you put on those gloves,” I say, breathless.
I can tell he wants to laugh, but it comes out more as a raspy exhale, because my hands are already working their way under the elastic waistband of his boxers. We’re moving so fast there’s no time to feel self-conscious.
I run my fingers down his cock, my face so close I think I’m tickling him with my breath. “Is this okay?” I murmur.
There’s a response, but it’s not in any form of language I’m familiar with. It sounds like a vowel-heavy keyboard smash.
We know each other the perfect amount for this—not so well that it’s awkward, just enough so there’s some trust.
I take him in my hand, stroking. His entire torso rises and falls in a quick rhythm. I’m breathing fast, too. My heartbeat feels like it’s in my throat.
“That—that’s good. Really very…very good. Shit.” He’s death-gripping the headrest with his left hand and reaching for my face with the right, tucking an errant lock of hair behind my ear.
In a different environment, I’d take my time with this. I could push him to the breaking point just with my hand. But I don’t know how long my back can handle being hunched over, and this is a goddamn Chili’s parking lot, so I lean forward, running my tongue up his length.
At moments like this, I’m usually berating myself for not better cataloging all the blow job tips I’ve encountered over the last ten years. Right now, my head is empty. I’m running on instinct, adrenaline, and the sounds Nick makes as I focus on the underside of the tip.
“F-fuck. Ahhh, fuck.” His hips jerk upward. I press on, taking him into my mouth, sucking gently. He groans in response, raw and almost feral.
It’s so satisfying I feel this prickling sensation down my spine that distracts me from the probable rug burn on my knees.
Why are so many men stoically silent during sex?
His noises spur me on. I find myself automatically taking him deeper into my mouth, sucking a tiny bit harder. He wants me, yes, but I need him to want me a little bit more.
Nick makes a low, guttural sound every time he hits the back of my throat, and it’s so encouraging. I feel like I’m jogging the last hundred feet of a marathon, with thousands of cheering supporters urging me toward the finish line.
His fingers are tangled in my hair and he’s just barely moving my head: light pressure, forward and back, slow and then faster. Glancing up at him and the helpless look on his face, I’m oscillating between feeling hot-debasedand hot-powerful-sex-witch.
“Sam.” He breathes my name. “Y-you…Fuckfuck…” The rest is gibberish and groaning.
Honestly, I’m pretty damn pleased with myself. Finally, a sense of accomplishment!
Nick pulls me up to the seat next to him and we kiss again. I take the time to notice sensory things: the softness of his lips next to the bristly texture of his beard, the gentle way he touches my face and my bare shoulders. I’m sure he can taste his own cum in my mouth, but he doesn’t care and I like that.
“Here, lean back,” he says, tossing two of the stuffed animals on the seat behind me into the trunk area. My back hits the arm rest as I try to recline.
My eyes follow the path of Nick’s fingers slowly tracing my collarbone, down my sternum, over my belly, pausing to feel my stomach rising and falling with each breath. He moves his hand back up, unhooking my bra, his fingers finding their way over my left breast. He grazes the nipple and I tip my chin up toward the roof, making a little keening sound.
How does something so minor feel like so much?
He places his other hand at the back of my head and angles my chin back down, so I have no choice but to watch the way his fingers move deliberately over my skin.
The rain picks up a bit against the windows.
He undoes the button and zipper of my skirt, peeling itdown, yanking it over my boots, leaving my underwear hanging around my left ankle.
He kisses me and then moves his mouth lower, lower, and I feel drunk again in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. My abs clench from the way his nose tickles the skin around my belly button. His hands find the backs of my thighs, spreading them open on either side of his shoulders, and my heart feels like it’s beating in five different places in my body.
But at some point in the last thirty seconds, my brain booted up again. The thoughts are loud.
I’m too naked, way too vulnerable. Paranoia starts to seep in: Does he actually want to do this or is it some sense of obligation? Should I explain that I was overcome by one-handed-backing-up-induced delirium?
I want it but I also…can’t? Not right now. I’m hyperventilating and also barely breathing.
I’m about to do the tap on the shoulder when he raises his head and asks if I’m okay.
