“Does that feel good?” he asks, even though he knows. He can tell by the way I’m losing control of my body. My pelvis tilts against my will. I nod, but it’s not enough for him. “Tell me with your words.” He circles around my clit before brushing over it between every stroke of his fingers.
“It feels good,” I whimper.
“I’ll tell you my name if you come.” He dips his fingers into me again. “Do you wanna know my name, sweet bunny?”
“Yes.” I pant the word. I’m betraying my husband. I’m betraying myself. But he’s going to make me come. I feel it brewing between my legs, rising into my belly. I rock my hips and grind against his palm as I leave my morals at the edge.
My body tenses, each muscle aching for release. I struggle to keep my eyes on the road with each forward scoop of my hips. He fucks me with his fingers, and I come against his hand. He growls as he feels me spasm around him, at the twitch of my clit. I shudder and try to keep hold of the wheel.
“My name’s Lex,” he whispers in my ear, his hot breath leaving goosebumps along my skin. He pulls his hand from my pants and puts his fingers into his mouth. Tasting me. He pushes his spit-coated fingers past my lips. My stomach tightens. I don’t want to like what’s happening. Everything inside me tells me not to.
But the hungry way he looks at me makes me want it to happen again.
ChapterFive
Lex
She’s so mad at me. Or at herself. She liked my touch, and she hates that. But I loved making her come around my fingers. Her body reacted to me as if she hadn’t experienced that touch at home. She probably hasn’t. She probably hasn’t had much positive touch in her life at all.
After feeling her come around my fingers, I want to get inside her even more. I want to feel her tighten around my dick. I want to fill her married pussy with my come.
I adjust the front of my pants without drawing her attention. I love knowing she’s drenched, sitting in come that my fingers coaxed from her. She’s so mad about it that her brows are permanently furrowed at this point. She hates the warm, sticky wetness that came from someone who isn’t her husband.
It came from me.
A dark and dirty felon.
The black shadow beside her.
My eyes linger on her pants, and I smirk at the thought of how wet they probably are. We’ve been driving for a few hours, but we still have many more ahead of us. I should let her change, and I also don’t mind the idea of getting out of these prison sweatpants.
“Stop in here,” I tell her. She turns into the parking lot of a small secondhand store.
When we enter the building, an elderly woman behind a cash register looks up from a magazine and gives us a cursory glance before returning to her article. I look at Selena to make sure she doesn’t try anything dumb, but she doesn’t. Good girl.
I grab a pair of jeans from a long rack of clothes in the center of the store, excited by the promise of denim against my legs again. Such a simple thing I took for granted while in prison. Selena grabs a t-shirt and leggings and stands beside me.
“You’ll want a little more than that,” I tell her.
“Why? Where are we going? You haven’t told me.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that. Just trust me and get a few outfits.”
I spot a skirt and hold it up to show Selena. The thin black material is exactly what I want to see her in. She shakes her head with a judgmental glare as she looks around. She grabs a pair of shorts and jeans and chooses a long-sleeved shirt and a cami from the next rack.
I walk over to her, put the skirt in her pile, and whisper, “For what I’m going to do to you, you’ll want the skirt.”
Her cheeks flame red as I leave her side to find another t-shirt for myself.
I search the rack, or I pretend to, at least. In reality, I’m watching her, waiting to see if she’ll run out the door when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She looks less uptight when she walks now, like she’s finally gotten a long-needed release and has more confidence because of it. I wonder if she’ll feel tethered to my touch now that she’s come from it.
Will it keep her from running off?
I snatch a t-shirt off the rack and head to the front of the store. She hasn’t gotten up there yet, so I lean against a pillar and watch her again. She picks up a pair of panties that still have tags attached, but she puts them down with a grimace. With a sigh, she joins me at the front with her stack of clothes.
“No panties, rabbit?” I ask as we walk into the maze of a checkout line.
She scoffs. “I’m not wearing pre-purchased underwear. Can we stop somewhere else?”