I moan, my lips parting as the fingers inside me disappear.
The hiss of a zipper hastily torn down creates a spasm low in my belly and I reach out.
Someone comes to me, buries their face in my neck as a cock buries itself inside me.
A desperate groan echoes and heavy panting fills the space around me.
“So fucking sexy, yeah, Arsen?” Beretta’s words are strained, the hands on my hips holding me steady, twitching.
My nipples are pinched, my neck kissed.
I’m fucked slow and deep, the pace spiking with my pulse.
I moan into the air, my legs widening, stretching.
The need is building, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt, and my pussy is rocked over and over.
Heavy grunts have my fingers curling, hands overwhelm me, and I’m crying into the air.
“I need... fuck I—” I break off in a moan, my back arched high.
The cock inside me flexes, holds, and tears away, but only seconds pass and I’m filled again.
My legs are pushed back, held up, and I thrash along the hood.
“Fuck, she’s about to come.”
“I know.”
“Kiss her. Claim it.”
A mouth falls hard on mine.
It’s rough and punishing, possessive and commanding, and I gasp, my body shaking, my tongue diving inside, tangling with his.
My pussy convulses, his cock twitching as I do, and he rolls his hips, pressing deeper.
A finger comes down over my clit, applying pressure, and I squeeze his cock tightly.
He slips out, the sound of jeans being shuffled, belts being fastened filling the air around me, and then I’m lifted and held, my muscles limp beyond my control.
I’m pulled against someone, my bare center flush with his cotton shirt, my cheek placed on his strong chest.
The wild beat of his heart soothes my own, my breathing growing lax along with his.
I jolt, attempting to pull free when the back of his knuckle comes up, sliding beneath the cut on my cheek.
The cut I came here tonight to forget, along with the man in front of me when it happened.
Along with the difference in reaction from the ones I’m with now when they saw it.
He doesn’t allow me to escape, though.
He holds me there, gently rubbing at my skin as if he sensed I was scared.
As if he’s aware I needed comfort.
As if he knows those very things left me angry with myself and landed me here.
As if he’s telling me all of that is okay.
And letting me know he’s willing to be whatever I want him to be.
But the best part is he doesn’t confirm who he is, allowing me to pretend everything he’s saying with his touch... means absolutely nothing.
As it should.
I lift my head, and I’m slid down, my body still flush with the one holding on to me. With one last touch to my cheek, the hand drops to my dress, stretching it back into place, and I’m released.
There’s some shifting around me, but only when the exhaust kicks on, heating my leg, do I reach up, freeing the bandana from my face.
An unexpected hesitance swirls in my stomach, and I glance over my shoulder. Ransom and Beretta drop into the back seat, Arsen behind the wheel. They aren’t staring or smirking or laughing.
They’re simply allowing me a moment, waiting for me to be ready to join them. Slowly, I spin, the front of my body now faces the car.
I glide my fingers along the trunk space, and my lips twitch, my chest rising with a heavy inhale.
And then I’m laughing. A full-on, stomach clenching, abs aching laugh, and the boys look to me.
At first, they’re unsure, but then low chuckles slip from each, and Beretta shoots up in the seat, grabs me over the trunk and hauls me forward. I squeal, flying forward, and landing across his and Ransom’s lap.
His arms spread out along the back of the seat, and Ransom unclasps my heels from my feet, tossing them to the floorboard before leaning over, grabbing my hands and tugging me toward him.
His arms wrap around me, and I shift so I’m sideways in his lap, my knees bent and feet flat on the middle seat. His left hand falls to my thigh, the other drumming along the outer edge of the Camaro, so I drop my head back, resting it on the bend of his elbow.
Arsen turns up the music and we pull from the parking lot, my eyes on the stars above us.
Oh, what the September skies have seen.
My mother would murder me.
I close my eyes, grinning at the thought.
Stepping from my car, a hand comes around my shoulder, swiftly stealing my coffee from my grasp as a second pair wraps around my hips, driving me against my door.
I’m held still, warm, wet lips gliding along my cheek, pausing at my ear. He inhales, a low rasped whisper following, “‘Morning, Trouble.”
Mint and clary sage assaults my senses and I exhale. “Ransom.”