“Relax, Becky,” I hum. “You know you love this.”
His breath sputters out in a shaky moan. “I… I don’t.”
I curl my finger.
He chokes on a cry. It’s muffled, but sharp and desperate. His knees buckle so hard I have to grip his hip to hold him up.
“Baby, you can’t lie to me,” I rasp. “Your body tells the truth even when your mouth doesn’t. Now bear down for me.”
I add a second finger.
His body jolts forward, forehead dropping to the carpeted trunk floor. His hands fist in the fabric of his hoodie, now pushed up his torso to expose his muscular back to me. His thighs tremble so violently I can feel it through my wrist.
Jesus Christ and all his disciples, I beg you, for all that is holy in this world, please don’t let me come before he does. And thank you, Lord, for making this perfect specimen of a man and placing him in my path. In Jesus' name, I pray.
Ah-fucking-men.
“Brody—Oh—Fuck?—”
“That’s it,” I say. “Let me open you up.”
I work my two fingers steadily, scissoring, stretching him just enough to make him gasp but not enough to overwhelm him. His breath is ragged, broken on every exhale.
Then I angle my hand just slightly, a tiny shift and a beckoning motion, and goddamn. When my fingers drag over his spot, his entire body locks up. He makes a sound I’ve never heard before. Something wild and untouched and terrified of how good it feels.
“Right there,” I say, dragging over it again.
He moans. Loudly. He can’t even pretend he’s not getting his world rocked.
“That’s the spot,” I murmur, my breath fogging in the night air. It no longer feels cold, though. I’m burning up. “This is how you fall apart for me.”
“Brody—Brody, please—Please?—”
I curl my fingers again.
He cries out and pushes up, gripping the edges of the trunk like he’s trying not to fly apart.
“You want to come?” I ask.
He nods frantically, eyes clenched, teeth between his lips, and hips rocking back onto my hand without shame now.
“Tell me what I want to hear.”
His voice comes out shredded. “I want to come… On your fingers…”
“Say it right.”
He shudders and forces the words out.
“I want to come on your fingers like a… agood girl.”
My cock throbs painfully at that.
“You’remygood girl?” I ask, my voice quiet, dangerous.
His head drops, shoulders heaving. “Yes. Yes—Please?—”
“You beg so prettily.”
