An elderly man in a flat cap strolls directly in front of us at the pace of someone who has nothing on his schedule but life itself.
Patrick has the audacity to chuckle. It’s low and dark and he sounds entirely too pleased with himself. “He can’t see inside the car.”
“He can see my face,” I shriek, and another wave hits so hard my head drops back against the headrest. “Oh fuck—”
The old gentleman reaches my window and pauses, close enough that I can see the weave of his tweed.
Please don’t look. I’m begging you, sir. For both our sakes.
He looks.
Our eyes lock.
I pant, mouth hanging open, eyes probably rolled back in my head, while Patrick’s fingers continue their devastating work.
I pray this gentleman thinks I am having a medical emergency and not a very public orgasm.
He pulls out a tissue from his jacket pocket and proceeds to have a good long blow of his nose. Inspects the results. Folds itcarefully. Tucks it back in his pocket. Takes his sweet time about the whole thing.
“I’m going todie,” I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut as another wave crashes through me. “I’m going to die of embarrassment before I can even—oh fuck—Patrick—”
My whole body locks up, thighs trembling, seatbelt digging into my shoulder as I arch against the leather.
“Let go, sweetheart.”
I shatter with a sharp cry, my pussy clenching hard around his fingers as the orgasm rips through me. The Land Rover jolts over the track again, and I cling to his forearm, trembling so hard the world outside dissolves into a blur.
He finally eases his hand free then settles his hand back on the wheel like nothing just happened.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, gripping the edge of the seat like I might slide right out of it. “You’re a monster.”
Of all the places I thought sex might happen in my life, “inside waterproof rubber trousers while a man steers with one hand” was not on the bingo card. It’s so completely filthy.
What the hell is this man doing to me? The careful, anxious girl who triple-checks her alarm clock disappears the second he touches me, replaced by this feral creature of pure need who’d let him have her anywhere, while someone’s grandfather goes about his day.
This man has conquered my body. He can have me splayed out, making animal noises, begging for more in ten seconds.
If he can do this to my body, what the hell could he do to my soul?
THIRTY-TWO
Apologizing to every herring
Patrick
She grips the rod,knuckles white. “I’m terrible at this.”
I step in behind her, close enough that my chest meets her back. My arms come around either side of her, hands settling over hers on the rod.
“Loosen up,” I say. My calluses catch against her soft skin. “The rod does the work. You just guide it.”
She leans back into me. “Like this?”
The line shoots out, barely disturbing the water before flopping sideways.
“Not quite.” I shift her stance, one hand at her hip, turning her until she’s aligned with the water. “Feel the weight of it. Don’t force it.”
Her next cast sails cleaner, the line arcing properly this time.
