“You look nice,” he says with his signature rough timbre. There’s a pulsing in my ears and beneath my pencil skirt, too.
“Thank you.”
“It’s gonna be a good first day,” he says, his eyes still holding mine. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man say somethingfor mewhile looking me in the eyes. And heat sears my cheeks at the realization that this is a very real, genuine moment. My spine wiggles. Thank god I’m sitting down.
Something comes over me–another mini epiphany.
Our timing may not be right, but there’s an undeniable spark between us, each smile and grunt fueling that twinkle. It’s growing, and right now, I don’t know if I can fit it in. As much as I want this man to lay me down, spread me open and ride me into oblivion, I want to be a better me. And I don’t know how to make room for it all.
But in the cab of my car, as our breath hangs between us, my entire nervous system on high alert, we can have each other. We can take a bite of what we want.
“Will you be my good luck charm?” I ask, a little surprised by my own sultry tone. When I think back on time with Reynold—the voices I made during sex, the things I said, what I wore, and how I laughed when I knew he was watching—fake. And what for? I lost myself in ways that make my stomach turn. And in return, he took more from me than I wanted to give.
I owe myselftimeandtruth.
But also a little bit of dick, too.
His eyes bore into me, and my body reacts, my panties absorbing a rush of arousal. “How?”
The way his pupils expand as his eyes journey the length of my lips as my tongue wets them—I want my bite of cake, damnit.
“I always do best when I’m feeling confident.”
The rock in his throat bobs as his knees spread open on a groan, one hitting the door, the other connecting with the center console. He grunts and all I can think about is the contour of his cock in his sweats the night at the cabin.
“What’re you getting at, Goldie girl?”
A hot shiver wraps my core at his affectionate nickname. I don’t want to be a mom, but being in this small space with this big man—I have images of him pumping deep inside me, filling me with his cum as he treats me like his personal fucktoy, sucking my tits and making my toes curl. Jesus Christ. My pulse rockets.
“You make me feel good. But I think making you feel good would make me feel even better,” I say, speaking slowly as I wait for my embarrassment to hit. As I wait to feel ashamed of nearly flat out asking “can I suck your cock”, I watch his face.
He doesn’t look shocked. He doesn’t look angry. A growl rolls through his chest and it’s then I know–I’m not going to feel embarrassed or cringed or any of that. I’m not going to have time.
I’m going to be busy sucking cock.
My heart jumps when he leans back, using his feet to lengthen his spine along the tiny passenger seat. His fingers go to his fly and while his eyes never leave me, mine seem to tumble down his evolving beard, along the hoodie that makes me wet, and down to this groin where his thick, work-laden fingers work his pants.
“You ok?” he asks wryly, stopping when his pants are open and his zipper is down, but I still haven’t seen anything but black nylon fabric.
I look up at him. He nods to me and I look down to see my hand grabbing my chest. My mouth is open, too. Closing my mouth, I smile, and tell the damn truth.
“I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to fall in love with your penis.”
He drops his elbows to his lap and his frame sags a little. Turning his head, he growls, “penis is not a word that makes me hard.”
“But it is a penis,” I argue, my eyes going back to his hands. Rolling my hand forward, I urge him on. “Enough semantics. Penis. Cock,” I lick my lips and lean over the console, taking a short kiss from his big, soft lips. “Raging fucking erection,” I lean back to my side and drop my eyes to the black nylon again. Feels like I’m waiting for the Magic 8 Ball to tell me my fortune. “Whatever you wanna call it, I’m good with it. But do not pick a fight with me. We don’t have time.” I snap at him. “Get it out, Atti.”
“Jesus,” he gruffs. “Real romantic.”
My eyes flick up to him. “I’m sucking you off in my car to feel like a badass at work. Were we going for romance?”
He glares at me, his lips twisting. Reaching into his boxer briefs, I watch his large hand move around in there for a minute, and just when I’m going to accuse him of playing with himself, he takes it out.
I draw my legs together in reaction, but my duplicitous pussy still floods with warmth, begging to be paid attention to by the behemoth in the other seat.
I open my mouth, and my hand resting on my heart slides to my lap. I can’t take my eyes off it. I want to say something, but all my wit and flirtation are also currently slacked-jawed staring at Atticus’s penis.
He’s right.