I smile and press my lips to his, holding his face between my hands. “I can do that,” I whisper. “If you can stay right here with me.”
I obey, not just because he’s a bossy bastard and he told me to, but because I want to. I love the way his beautiful face is completely captivated in bliss as he watches his thick cock stretch me open. I love the dirty words that leave his lips, even though I hate when he calls me those same things when he’s not inside me. I love the way he loses control when he can’t stand my pace anymore, the way he flips me on my back and fucks me fast and rough, though it feels like I’ve about dislocated a hip before the night is over. I love that when his eyes start to lose focus and I feel him slipping away, I can wrap my legs around him and hold his face between my hands and talk to him until he comes back to me.
I love the way he curses savagely and growls like an animal when he feels my walls clench around him as I cum. And most of all, I love the intoxicating, smoky heat in his black-coffee eyes when he grinds so deep inside me it hurts, pinning me to the seat and forcing me to take the extra pulse of size when he cums into my bruised, aching core. I love that he’s with me, right here, that his eyes are so full of lust and desire and maybe even emotion that I can hardly remember the emptiness.
We stay there until close to dawn, though he pulls me into the back seat after the first time. I try not to think about what Duke said about the back seat seeing a lot of action, or to consider why he has a blanket in the back of the car and who else might have been under it with him. Instead, I make myself stay in the moment, just like I want him to. We fuck and cuddle and talk, and he tells me more about his sister, and I tell him a little about my mom, and then we fuck again.
Around dawn, he takes me home. I start to get out of the car, remembering how he just about shoved me out the door last time. I don’t need a reminder that he thinks I stink. For a girl who lives in a pigsty like my house, and who doesn’t always get a hot shower, that’s always a point of self-consciousness. Before I can climb down, Royal grabs me by the front of his jacket and pulls me back, kissing me roughly on the mouth. “Keep my jacket over the break,” he says. “And send me a picture of you wearing nothing else.”
I snort at that. “You really think I’m sending you nudes after what you did with that video?”
“Shit,” he says, his face sobering. “I—I didn’t think about that.”
“And?” I ask, cocking a brow.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters.
“And?” I press.
“And I get it,” he says, sitting back in his seat and staring straight ahead. “You’ll never send pics.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, leaning over the console to brush a light kiss over his cheek. “You work on your apology, and I’ll send you something sexy in the meantime—but no nudes.”
He groans and slips a hand behind my head before I can pull away. “I can’t wait ten days to see your pretty pink cunt spread open for me,” he says, nipping my lower lip and squeezing until I suck in a breath, pressing my knees together. “If you’re not going to send me pics, I’m coming over.”
“Here?” I ask, panic rising inside me. It’s one thing to fuck a rich guy. I’m not having him see my house.
“I don’t care where we are, Cherry Pie. I forget where I am when I’m inside you.”
“The bridge, then,” I say, pulling him forward for a kiss, my heart soaring so high I know there’s only one way to go from here. “Sunday?”
“Sundays aren’t good for me,” he says, his jaw tightening. “How about tomorrow?”
“Can’t,” I say, thinking of the poker games where I won’t earn enough to cover all the fights I’ve been missing. “I’m busy Saturdays.”
He pulls back, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“I work,” I say. “If you’re going to take all my Fridays, you can’t have Saturday, too.”
“You don’t fight on Saturday. That’s—”
“When you fight,” I finish for him. “And I play cards.”
“What do you make?” he asks, reaching for his wallet. “I’ll cover it.”
“I’m not taking money from you.”
He hesitates like he’s deciding whether to argue, then nods. “Okay, then Monday.”
“Monday,” I agree, the dopey grin on my face surely ruining any game I might have as I climb out of the car and run up the walkway to the house.
*
Cliché
A girl in nothing but
My letter jacket