The last few pulses rip through me, and that’s when the sink gives, snapping off the wall. Water explodes everywhere. He shifts quickly, holding my weight. His hand on the mirror to steady himself for the last few thrusts, making sure I finish coming. That hisdick pulses one last time deep inside me.
He slides out, steadying me back on my feet and grabbing paper towels. Fisting his cock and wiping himself clean, we both look around the demolished bathroom and burst out laughing.
He tosses the used towels and kisses me, still rough, still hungry, before finally letting me go to zip himself up.
I pick my ruined panties out of a puddle. “You think the restaurant’s gonna know we’ve been fucking when we walk out of the bathroom dripping wet?”
He snatches the panties from my hand and tosses them in the trash. “I don’t fucking care. You won’t need these, Picarita.”
He swipes two fingers through the mess between my thighs, gathering cum and slick, then sucks them clean, eyes locked on mine.
“Because I’m nowhere near done with this pussytonight.”
Icome awake in a full-body jolt, convinced I’m about to die.
Like, actual death. Heart-explodes, soul-leaves-my-body, obituary-mentions-Irony death.
Because I open my eyes and Frank’s face is two inches from mine.
I used to think “scared to death” was dramatic. Turns out it’s a very reasonable medical condition when a cannibal hovers over you at dawn breathing like a haunted moose.
He jerks back. “You’re gonna miss your flight.”
“Yeah? And you almost made sure I never take another one.” I bark at him in an angry whisper. My pulse is doing cardio on its own. “You ever wake someone up like a normal human, or is jump-scaring people your spiritual calling?”
Frank squints. “Your dick is out.”
I sigh. “That kind of thing happens when you give someone a heart attack, Frank.”
Beside me, Saint shifts, her thigh brushing mine under the sheets. Last night flickers across my mind, and my mouth betrays me with a tiny, smug curve. God, she’s trouble.
Frank, because he has zero sense of privacy, lifts a plastic bag. “Your broker delivered the IDs and tickets.”
Then he pulls out something worse. A wig.
A long, braided wig.
“Also sent this.”
I stare at it.
Oh, she is going to hate that.
Gloriously, violently hate it.
Saint opens one eye, sees the braids, and lets out a noise that is ninety percent disbelief and ten percent plotting-a-murder.
“Don’t,” I warn her, already amused. “You know you have to wear it.”
“I would rather tell Tex he’s better than me.”
“He may still be around if you’d like me to find him,” I smirk.
She glares. I grin even more. Everything feels normal for half a breath.
Frank backs toward the door like he’s escaping a bomb about to detonate. “Get dressed. You need to leave in ten.”
Frank drives the kind of van people warn children about. Classic white. A dent the size of God’s fist in the sliding door. Random patches where the paint has given up on life. If vans had rap sheets, this one would be on parole.
