Fuck, that feels nice.
And so do the hands coming around my waist. I gasp into the stream as Noah shoves my jeans down, a chill hitting my bare pussy.
“Noah,” I squeal.
“You can’t bend over like that and not expect something to happen.”
“Not right now,” I pant, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “We can’t do this right now.”
“We can,” his jeans unzip. “And we will.” He thrusts into me, a cry ripping through my throat at the intensity of his cock stretching me.
He pumps into me, his hand coming down on my ass in a hard slap. I cling to the sink, my forehead resting against my arms, as the arousal picks up, coating his cock. I lean into the feeling, the sensation of him inside of me, the only thing keeping me standing.
“Fuck,” Noah groans, slowing. He rests his hand on my back, and then finds my asshole, his thumb circling it.
A hot, intoxicating pour through my body.
“Noah,” I hiss. “What?—”
He pushes his thumb the rest of the way in, grunting in satisfaction. I grip the sink even tighter, my orgasm pulsing through me unexpectedly.
“Oh God, you liked that,” he groans, his body stuttering through his own release. “You’re such a good girl when you let me do what I want to you.”
A wave of emotion crushes my chest at his words.It’s the only redeeming quality he seems to find in me.
And it’s both exhilarating and agonizing.
47
NOAH
The high doesn’tlast long.
For the first ten miles out of that gas station, I couldn’t feel the cold. My blood was running too hot, the visceral memory of Rue gasping against the sink, her nails digging into the ceramic, keeping the freezing New Mexico air at bay. I was coasting on the pure, feral adrenaline of having her entirely at my mercy in that filthy bathroom.
But out here, the desert in late winter doesn’t give a shit about adrenaline.
As the hours grind on and the darkness swallows the two-lane highway entirely, the temperature plummets. The temperature gauge on the bike has to be reading somewhere in the low thirties, but with the wind chill of us doing seventy miles an hour, it feels like single digits. The wind turns into a razor blade, slicing right through my thin jacket and biting into my skin.
We’re not dressed warm enough for this. Fuck.
Behind me, Rue is shivering so bad I can feel the tremors vibrating straight through my ribs. About five miles back, she shifted her grip, shoving her freezing, numb hands up undermy shirt just to press her palms against my bare stomach, desperately trying to steal whatever body heat I had left.
But it isn’t enough. We can’t keep going.
If we push through the night at this speed, one of us is going to pass out from the early stages of hypothermia and take us both down onto the asphalt at highway speeds.
Dammit. Wehaveto stop somewhere and get warm.
I ease off the throttle, my eyes scanning the desolate, moonlit landscape. We are somewhere near the outskirts of Fort Sumner. There’s nothing out here but flat, sweeping scrubland, rusted barbed wire fences, and fucking ghosts.
This is Billy the Kid country.
A place meant for outlaws to disappear and die in the dirt.
I spot a rusted, dilapidated sign for a forgotten railroad spur and guide the heavy bike off the shoulder, our tires crunching onto a heavily rutted dirt road.
About a quarter mile off the highway, rising out of the tall, dead grass like a metal tomb, sits an abandoned BNSF boxcar.
