Captain: Nah. I think I’ll keep them. Save them for later when I need something to jerk off to.
Becky: Seriously, Brody. Delete them. And leave me alone.
Captain: I’ll delete them if you can prove me wrong.
Becky: What does that even mean?
Captain: Meet me outside and I’ll show you.
Becky: …
The three little dots that show me he’s typing out a response pop up and disappear four times, but no message comes through.
Captain: Come on, Becky. Be a good girl and let me play with your ass. If you don’t come on my fingers in ten minutes or less, I’ll delete all the messages and leave you alone forever. That’s what you say you want, right?
He knows I’m right. His response takes even longer this time, but he finally texts back.
Becky: That is what I want, yes. But I don’t need to prove anything.
Sure it is.
Captain: Then put your ass where your mouth is, Becky. Meet me at your car. Five minutes.
I stand, toss my tray, and slip out the back doors. He’s already waiting for me outside. He looks nervous. And angry as fuck. But I can tell he’s turned on and more than a little curious. It’s his default state of being at this point.
“Why my car?” he mutters, looking back and forth to see if there’s anyone else around who might witness him being cordial with me.
“I want to see your car,” I say, strolling past him towards the lot. “I bet it’s really nice and roomy.”
I’ve seen his car, and I know it’s nice as hell. It’s a brand new gunmetal grey Range Rover Sport that reeks of privilege and, according to the internet, is rated the highest for cargo space in luxury midsize SUVs.
And isn’t that convenient?
It’s also convenient that I happen to know he parks as far away from other cars as possible to protect it from getting scratched. It’s practically in a private corner of the lot, perfectly hidden from view.
Cold air nips at our skin, fogs our breath. Beck wraps his arms around himself, shoulders hunched, jaw tight and pointedly not speaking to me.
When we reach the car, I push him gently against the back bumper.
He gasps. Then whispers, “No.”
His voice breaks on the word, and his pupils are blown wide. He wants so badly to say yes.
So I step closer, breath brushing his cheek.
“I didn’t ask,” I say softly. “You know what to say to make me stop.”
His knees tremble.
“Why don’t we crawl in the back, and you can bend over somewhere no one can see you?”
I ghost my fingers down his hip, stopping just above the waistband of his pants.
“Or, if you’d rather, I can bend you over right here,” I murmur, “and put on a show.”
He chokes out a sound—half shock, half arousal—then fumbles to open the liftgate.
That’s my desperate boy.
