“Filthy woman,” he breathes, with a look of pure sin in my direction.
And then he swerves off the road.
“Oh my god!” I exclaim, bracing myself. “Heathcliff, what are you doing?”
“Off-roading.” The truck bumps into a field of brownish grass, over clumps and clods. This field isn’t fenced in. It lies open and fallow under the blue autumn sky.
“You’re gonna wreck your truck,” I say.
“It’s Hindley’s truck. I don’t own a vehicle.”
“Oh.”
My mental perspective shifts a little, from truck-owning Heathcliff to truck-borrowing Heathcliff. I’m oddly disappointed, possibly because truck-owning Heathcliff represented more possibilities, more freedom, and Heathcliff without a vehicle is stuck here, like I am.
Heathcliff stops the truck. His side is facing the road, while mine faces the field and the trees. He swings out of the driver’s door, marches around the front of the truck, and yanks my door open. His big hands close on my wrists and he pulls me out of the passenger seat, onto the grass.
“Heathcliff, what—”
His thick, warm fingers brush my stomach as he undoes the button of my shorts and drags down the zipper. Then he pushes the shorts down to my ankles. I’m not wearing panties, and the kiss of the soft breeze on my pussy makes me shiver with pleasure. The air is golden, the faint bite of last night’s chill mingling with the indomitable heat of the Southern sun. The fresh scent of the distant trees and the heavy, damp aroma of the soil fills my nostrils. I think I could breathe this air forever and be perfectly happy.
“Heathcliff,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just maintains that fierce, purposeful silencewhile he grabs my waist and lifts my bare ass back onto the passenger seat, taking off my flip-flops, sliding off my shorts, and tossing everything onto his seat. Then he pushes my legs open.
I feel the lips of my sex parting wetly, spreading for him while he braces both palms against my thighs, holding me in place.
Heathcliff goes down to one knee. He looks up at me, and I hold my breath, stunned by how gorgeous he is at this moment, with the sun gilding his black hair and his brown eyes glowing at me like dark embers. He traces his tongue across his full lips.
I think he’s asking for permission. Or at least, giving me the chance to say no. Which is wise of him, especially after my banshee got a little too excited last night.
No matter what the risks, no matter what damage I might do, I refuse to give him up. Which means I need to practice self-control, and there’s no better time to do that than right now, in the middle of nowhere.
He’s still looking at me questioningly—no, wait, his gaze has dipped to my pussy. He’s staring at it with a grim-jawed hunger that makes me feel wonderfully wicked.
I reach between my legs and slide one finger through my folds before swirling it over my clit. Then I lean back, bracing myself on both hands, and I give him a smile that’s also a challenge.
With a low, eager huff of hot breath, Heathcliff nestles his face into my pussy.
His scruff grazes my inner thigh. It’s scratchy, but I don’t mind. Weirdly, it’s the perfect counterpoint to the slick invasion of his tongue.
His broad lips seal over my sex, and his tongue quivers along the seam of my pussy, a rhythmic licking that sends sheer bliss pulsing through my core. Then his lips close over my clit, suckling thattender bit of me, and I whimper. Can’t help it. I plant one bare foot on the dashboard and set the other against the inside of the truck, right where the shoulder belt hangs. In this position I can hold myself steady, even while I’m losing my mind to his thick, warm tongue.
Heathcliff rises and bends over me, eating me out like I’m a feast prepared just for him. Each thorough stroke of his tongue makes me squeal softly, until he takes my clit between his teeth and tugs it gently. Electric thrills jolt through that spot, followed by a surge of pleasure as he lets go and kisses me there instead. Then he’s shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth, his tongue and lips rubbing over my clit with just the right rhythm—fuck, fuck. I throw back my head and I come. Somehow I manage not to scream, but frantic breaths burst from my lungs, each one edged with a grateful whimper. As my pussy flutters, spasms, he kisses it deeply, firmly, compressing my clit just right as I shudder and whine for him.
“Heathcliff,” I sob. “Heathcliff, Heathcliff.” And he grabs me, hauls me against him, kisses my mouth. He shoves one big hand between my legs, cups my pussy, and holds me there, secure and soothing, the tip of his middle finger dipping just slightly into my slippery center.
I wrap both arms around his neck, a convulsive, possessive grip. My kiss turns cruel, my teeth snatching at his lips, his tongue, his jaw. I feel like I could eat him whole, unhinge my jaw and swallow him serpentlike, and that way I could keep him forever.
“Don’t you ever fucking do that to anyone else,” I hiss in his ear.
His hand leaves my pussy. Grips my throat, right under my jaw, and he kisses me brutally, until my lips are sore and swollen, and yet I’m choking a laugh through the sting of it because he’s making me the best kind of promise.
He releases my throat, and without warning, his two centralfingers ram deep into my pussy. I gasp, tightening my grip on his neck. He pounds me ruthlessly, those fingers thrusting thick and deep, the heel of his hand hammering against my clit. I’m so wet I’m spraying droplets with each rapid thrust, and normally I might be embarrassed but I’m mindless for him, every inhibition blurred, my body slave to the violent thrusting of his fingers.
I come with a gush of bliss, with a voiceless scream, with a spastic tightening of every muscle in my body. I can’t breathe. I bite Heathcliff’s shoulder through his T-shirt while my limbs shake and my wetness showers his hand.
When the bliss recedes, I’m limp and soft. The edge of the seat is damp, but Heathcliff produces a roll of paper towels from somewhere and shoves a wad against the cushion to soak up the moisture. He cleans me up, too, wiping carefully between my thighs.
