“It’s ridiculous,” I say, ducking into the vehicle, face still shielded by my hand. “Will this thing even make it to the state line?”
Cupid huffs. “Seventy years on the road, and you think this car can’t handle an eight-hour road trip? This baby runs better than whatever piece of junk you were planning on driving.” He slaps the hood twice, face glowing with obvious pride.
“New doesn’t mean better, Love. Sometimes things areclassics for a reason.”
I’m planning to retort that I didn’t want to drive at all, I wanted tofly—but I hold my tongue. It doesn’t seem fair to hold a very real phobia over someone, even if it has inconvenienced me. Especially after I’ve already been so thoroughly inconvenienced by everything else that’s happened today. “Whatever,” I mumble under my breath instead.
Cupid rounds the monstrous vehicle, jumps back into the driver’s seat, and signals to pull into traffic.
I say a silent prayer of thanks that this car has seat belts—a small miracle—because otherwise, there’s no way in hell I’d entertain this idea. Well, that and I might have checked flights to Las Vegas while Cupid left me alone (with the intent of running away and getting out of this awkward love trap situation) and discovered they were all fully booked or prohibitively expensive. My options are limited, my timeline even more so, and this solution will have to do for now.
Maybe I can hide from him once we get to Vegas, do whatever it takes to avoid spending any more time together than what’s strictly necessary.
Unfortunately, despite the absurdity of the situation, my senses are highly attuned to everything Cupid-related right now. And what are my senses telling me? Mainly, that Cupid looks damn good behind the wheel. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, and hishandslook…
I need to stop staring.
I’m starting to get ideas about what those hands would feel like on me. And those ideas are making me shift uncomfortably in my seat.
So instead of continuing to tease Cupid about his car choices, I shut my mouth and decide to keep it shut for the remainder ofthe trip. Because talking will surely only get me in trouble.
Thankfully, we fall into a somewhat comfortable—if awkward—silence as Cupid navigates us through the city traffic and onto the highway. He’s humming quietly to himself, some songs I vaguely recognize but couldn’t name off the top of my head. I’m staring straight ahead, trying very hard not to sneak glances at him as he maneuvers us through a steady stream of cars.
Not sure what to do with myself, I engage in my favorite pastime: mindlessly scrolling on my phone.
After a while, Cupid asks, “What are you looking at that’s so interesting?” I can feel him leaning toward me, trying to catch a glimpse of my phone screen. I jolt when the car swerves into the neighboring lane, followed by thetootof an angry horn.
“Hey! Eyes on the road,” I scold, pointing out the windshield.
“But I’mbored,” Cupid whines. “Road trips are supposed to be fun, and you’re just sitting there staring at your phone. Oh, I know! Let’s play a game!” He looks at me with a huge smile on his face. “Twenty questions? Never have I ever? No, wait—punch buggy!”
“No,” I say, trying hard to ignore him. But he either doesn’t hear me or is choosing to ignore me. The next thing I know, I hear, “Punch buggy yellow!” and he’s thumping my upper arm as a yellow beetle car passes us on the left.
“Ow!” I cry out in knee-jerk reaction, but the punch didn’t hurt at all.
For his part, Cupid grimaces at me and apologizes, recognizing that he might have crossed a line. He didn’t, but I won’t tell him otherwise. If that’s what it takes to get him to back off from the road trip games nonsense, it’s workingto my advantage. I’m just not in the mood for playing games—or doing anything that might involvegetting to know each other.Getting to know each other often leads to bonding, which turns into—god forbid—mutual affection.
Therefore, no punch buggy, no problem.
I need to keep Cupid at arm’s length, win the bet, and keep building my app. My goal for the next three days: get out of this arrangement unscathed. Ignore the itchy, warm feeling developing in my chest—clearly the aftereffects of that damn arrow.
I let my attention wander to the scenery passing by us. First, to the other cars crowding the road, then to the smattering of abandoned, dilapidated buildings, and finally to nothing but the landscape and open road.
Eventually, the sights and sounds of the highway lull me into a fitful sleep.
The next thing I notice is a slight tingle on my thigh. This is what wakes me up. It’s not quite a tingle, though—more like a tickle. A gentle pressure walking across my skin with a firm and insistent touch. In my sleepiness, I think, almost absurdly, that it feels like a caress. And this causes me to stir in my seat, thighs opening slightly, instinctively, as the sensation moves from my outer thigh to the plane of my hip.
Who’s doing this? Is that me?
My head moves through a fog, lifting from the window where it was uncomfortably resting. The crick in my neck sends a sharp pain down my spine, but I’m more concerned about what’s happening between my legs. I look down and see the fabric of my skirt gathered up and around my waist. A hand, bigger than my own, fingers nimbly running over the soft skin of my inner thighs, then toying with the edge of my underwear.
Slowly still, I turn my head. My gaze traverses across a taut forearm, over a firm bicep, up a strong shoulder—there. The hand’s owner, my road trip companion: Cupid.
Cupid doesn’t look at me or even acknowledge me. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, one hand on the steering wheel while the other is stretched across the bench seat, seeking the warm heat between my legs. The same hand works into my panties, slips between my pussy lips, and his fingers begin to draw a slow pattern around my clit.
I’m surprised, but also not, to find that I’m already wet and ready for his touch. My legs spread a little wider, and I let my heavy head roll back against the headrest, eyes closing.
As Cupid’s nimble fingers work against me, my breath quickens. He increases the pressure, and I gasp before tilting my hips into it, following the pattern of his movements as pleasure builds in my core. When he pauses his ministrations, a small moan leaves my mouth before I can catch myself—and I hear a chuckle before a finger pushes lower, entering me.
