“Stop putting words into my mouth.” I glare at him. “I’m not getting in the car and that’s it.”
He stares at me for one second.
Two.
Three —
He lifts a shoulder and stalks to the driver’s side.
Wait. He’s leaving?
Of course, he is.
What did I expect from someone with his level of conniving evil?
I run to the passenger side and flop inside with a groan. I don’t need to look up to see his smirk. I feel it in my bones.
Dickhead.
The car revs in the streets and I clench my thighs. I’m still sensitive — and stimulated — from the shower. The engine’s vibrations are making it worse.
Or better — depends on how you see it.
“So?” I bite the unease down.
“So what?”
“I’m in the stupid car. What’s the story?”
“I told you.” He glances in my direction. “You have to pay first.”
“Pay for what?”
“Think about it.” He grabs my thigh at the small space where my skirt meets my stocking.
I try to push him away, but he only grips me harder.
After a while of futile struggling, I give up and stare out of the window.
I try not to think of his skin on mine. I try not to feel how his fingers draw maddening circles on my inner thighs.
It’s impossible.
For the entire ride, he appears nonchalant while driving and teasing me.
Someone is good at multi-tasking.
His fingers draw paths over the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. I squirm in my seat.
Every time I tell him to stop, he just inches his fingers up under my skirt, teasing the edge of my underwear.
I try to remain still and he takes it as approval, letting his finger roam at my folds.
There’s no winning with him.
“Hmm, someone is wet.”
I clamp my lips in a line and try to clench my thighs. He grips me harsher.