He curls his fingers up and my eyes nearly roll back in my head. “Ride my fucking hand.”
And this time, I just do it.
I bounce up and down using my knees and the muscles in my thighs. I have to tip my head back, throat exposed, breasts nearly level with his face, just so I can close my eyes and not think about how I look.
But pretty soon, with his murmurs of encouragement, I don’t care.
I’m riding his fingers like I own them, twirling my hips to grind his palm just where I want it on my clit. The slick sounds of me against him spill out into the car and I don’t care. I’m moaning in earnest, loud, and if someone was in those woods behind us, they’d definitely hear me.
None of it matters.
Besides, we’re alone.
“Good fucking girl,” he murmurs, then he leans down, and he bites my hard nipple through my cami.
Fuck.
He sucks, his tongue dampening the thin cotton layer.
I keep riding him, my tits jumping as I do, but he keeps one in his mouth. Then he drags his teeth to the other, biting at my breast.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, and that word brings me closer.
I tighten my walls around him, my shoulders straining as hard as he’s holding my wrists back, and I don’t think he even realizes it.
The pain gets me closer, though.
I wasn’t lying when I told him I liked it.
And I like something else too.
“Spit on me,” I gasp as he tugs my nipple between his teeth. “Spit on my face.”
His fingers move in time with my thrusts, and I grind hard against his hand as he pulls back, and a second later, mortification washing through me that I actually demanded that out loud, I hear it before I feel it.
He spits on my face, over my cheekbone, down the side of my mouth.
Then he releases my wrists, yanks up my shirt, and slaps my exposed nipple, cold air and the sting of his hand making me come.
“You have perfect fucking tits,” he snarls, and he slaps the other one as I fall apart on his hand.
“Fuck,” I whisper, head thrown back, leaving my arms in the same position he left them. “Fuck, Faust.”
He grabs my throat and forces me to look at him as the wave crashes through me and I tighten on his fingers, the orgasm still vibrating through me.
“That’s right,” he whispers. “You only saymy fucking name.”
And just as I bring my arms forward, digging my nails into his shoulders, his fingers still inside me, there’s a sharp rapping sound on the back windshield.
I flinch, biting my lip to keep from shrieking, at the same time he pulls his fingers out of me and wraps his arms around my back, pressing one palm on the back of my skull and pulling me down so I’m cradled against him.
We don’t move.
We don’t breathe.
The only sound I hear is my own pulse in my ears.
My knees feel wobbly, my body tired, but my mind is on high alert.
