Cupid eases his finger in and out of me at an excruciatingly slow pace as I grip the door handle and try to sit still and let him work me over. If I keep my eyes closed, if I don’t acknowledge him, then this didn’t happen. If I pretend he isn’t buried knuckle-deep in my cunt, then he isn’t. Then I don’t have to admit that I wanted this—that I wanted him that night we first met, when this seemed inevitable, but I decided it was off the table.
It’s terrible reasoning, I know, and it falls to pieces when my mindfinallyloses control over my body. Cupid has been teasing me with his unhurried finger-fucking—and I’ve been tolerating it. But when he slips a second finger inside me and refuses to speed up, refuses to do anything that would satisfythe need thatheinitiated, I lose control.
I grab him by the wrist and press him to me, fingers still buried in my tight entrance. I hold his hand in place, with his palm over my clit, and begin to rock my hips against him. I’m pushing him deeper, and he’s pushing me closer to the edge now that I’m usinghim,instead of the other way around. The gentle vibration from the car adds a strange, pleasant sensation to the mix. I feel as if I’m floating.
My right hand grips at the door handle, at my skirt, at my thigh: anything that gives me something to cling to as my other hand, practically melded to Cupid’s, drives me to orgasm.
I’m lifting my hips now, grinding my pelvis wildly, feet pressing flat on the floorboard to find enough purchase to keep up this rhythm. My eyes are still closed, but I can no longer stay silent—or pretend to stay silent, since I’ve probably been making sounds this whole time—and I moan with pleasure. Louder and more insistent with each second until I’mso closeI’m panting, and Cupid’s name is on my lips…
Then I open my eyes with a start and realize thatI’ve been asleep this whole time. I glance down to find my own hand pressed between my thighs, brushing against the wet cotton covering my center.
Cupid hasn’t shoved his hand down my panties and fingered me to near orgasm—he’s not even touching me. When I peek over at him, I see Cupid gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles have turned bone white.
Yep, he noticed. I yelp, loud and unconsciously, becauseoh my god I was practically fingering myself in the car while dreaming aboutCupidfingering me.
And while I’m processing this ticker-tape of mental horrors, I spot a baby deer near the shoulder—bounding toward the road,toward our lane—and I scream for Cupid to stop stop STOP!
My senses are quickly overwhelmed by the kick-up of dust, the squeal of brakes, and the smell of burned rubber. I clench my hands into fists and squeeze my eyes, bracing for an impact I’m sure is coming.
9
Cupid
My right arm flies out in front of me as we bump along the rumble strips and eventually come to a stop at an angle, straddling asphalt and grass.
I can feel my heart thumping against my chest and my breath, quick and ragged, as I try to gather my wits. I do a quick check to make sure I’m okay. Mostly, I’m just tense from bracing as the car swerved into the shoulder. No damage done, just a bit jarred from the sudden movement.
When Felicity yelled at me to stop, I stomped on the brake without a second thought—and swerved us right off the damn road. Of course, it didn’t help that I was distracted by the little whimpers she’d just been making in her sleep, trying desperately to keep my eyes on the road and my hands out of my pants.
Now, my hand is resting on Felicity’s thigh, right where it landed when I stuck my arm out as a pathetic excuse to keep her safe. It’s gripped tightly—so tightly I’m worried it might hurt—but she doesn’t seem to care. In fact, she doesn’t seem like she’s here atall…
I unbuckle my seat belt and slide over to where Felicity’s sitting stock-still and staring straight ahead with both hands covering her mouth. She’s as pale as a sheet.
“Felicity?” I ask, slightly panicked. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
I tug at her hands, press my own to the sides of her head, and turn her face to me. My eyes bounce across her pallid face, then over her body, palms pressing lightly against the curve of her shoulders, then her arms, rib cage, legs, as I test to see if anything is broken.
I know Felicity’s not a porcelain doll, and that we didn’t actually crash or flip the car or anything like that. I know she doesn’t break so easily. But I’m worried all the same becauseit’s Felicity.I’ve known her for less than twenty-four hours, and in that time I’ve figured out that she’s tough as nails—but even nails can bend and break.
Instead of answering, she begins laughing wildly.
I look at her, puzzled. She just continues with her giggle fit, tears pooling in her eyes and rolling down her flushed cheeks. I wipe one away with my thumb—and it’s this action that gets her to look at me, finally.
“I’m sorry,” she wheezes, then hiccups.
I brush a gentle hand across her forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a move that barely registers to me. Later, I’ll think about how intimate it was, how I’m not being subtle at all—how I think I never planned to be, with her.
But none of that crosses my mind in this moment.
Felicity blinks slowly. I hold her gaze, my hand now resting gently under her jaw. We stay that way for several long moments, the sound of passing traffic white noise comparedto the sound of my blood thumping in my ears.
We both jump when we hear thewhoop-whoopof a siren coming toward us. This breaks the spell. Turning in my seat, I spy a police car and immediately duck low, my head practically in Felicity’s lap. Felicity ducks beside me.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asks, a tremor of worry in her voice.
“You have to switch seats with me,” I hiss. “Now.”
“I have to—what?”
