ached to find a loose thread in his façade and pull until he unraveled, to see him come undone. To be there when he could no longer hold back and let go.
Madness, she thought again, because she’d been here before, and his wanting her meant nothing, yet believing that diminished everything about this moment. And she wouldn’t allow herself to conflate the present with the past. She would enjoy this, every moment, every touch of his fingertips, his whiskered cheek, his tongue.
His breath against her cheek was labored. His heart pushed into her palm, where it lay against his chest, with each beat. He was not unaffected. Of that she was sure. Yet he seemed more intent on the things going on with her: the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against the squared neck of her costume, the sounds she couldn’t keep in the back of her throat no matter how hard she tried.
When she felt his hand on her leg above her thigh-high tights, she stiffened, but then he used the backs of his fingers inside her leg and she thought she might die from the pleasure. His touch was soft, teasing, and shivers ran through her, plucking at the tension binding her until she relaxed, and shifted in her seat to allow him the access he sought.
It took him no time to accept her invitation, his hand moving to the elastic of her panties and beneath. She whimpered at the contact; how long had it been? She was hungry, and if this was the last time a man fed her, she would happily starve for the rest of time. Oh, the things he was doing with his hand. Right there, yes, there. Please, there.
She held tight to his arm, the fabric of his sleeve slipping as he moved, as he aroused her so unbearably she wanted to climb the walls. She needed to go inside. Tennessee and Kaylie could be on their way. She needed to go inside, but she didn’t want to go inside, and she didn’t want Oliver to stop, and she didn’t want to ever lose this feeling, because oh, oh, oh —
Racked with shudders, she bit down on her lip, and tasted blood, and couldn’t even care because her body was a mess of sensation. She melted into the seat, and against him, going limp and spineless. Weakened, she had nothing left. She wasn’t even sure she could walk, and curled her toes, her black-and-yellow-striped spandex stockings squeaking in her shoes.
The noise made her laugh, and the laughter helped ground her. She reached up to brush his hair from his face, then brought his mouth back to hers for a kiss that was as much a thank-you as it was an invitation. It was slinky and silky, her tongue against his, coaxing and sure. But they were done too soon, the car too small for the heat still rising.
“Let’s go inside,” she said, as he pulled back into his seat.
“I’ll walk you to the door, but then I need to go.”
Wait a minute. “So . . . You don’t want to . . .”
He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that answered her better than words. “Of course I want to, but my car being here and me being with you behind closed doors . . .” He shook his head, regretful. “I don’t think your brother finding us together is a good idea.”
That, she couldn’t argue with. But still . . . She was going to go into the house, and he was going to . . . just leave? “I can’t decide if you’re looking out for me, or looking out for yourself.”
His grin widened. “Let’s call it a little bit of both.”
Because all is fair in love and war?
They sat there for a moment after that, neither one moving, neither one speaking, his gaze holding hers, or vice versa, yet neither one able to let go. It was a strange sort of tension, full of unfinished business and this fragile intimacy and questions waiting unanswered in the wings.
And still they sat there, breathing, the motor humming, Indiana flexing the fingers of one hand in the square-dance tiers of her skirt, Oliver flexing his around the steering wheel, until she couldn’t take it anymore.
She beat him to the punch by
Madness, she thought again, because she’d been here before, and his wanting her meant nothing, yet believing that diminished everything about this moment. And she wouldn’t allow herself to conflate the present with the past. She would enjoy this, every moment, every touch of his fingertips, his whiskered cheek, his tongue.
His breath against her cheek was labored. His heart pushed into her palm, where it lay against his chest, with each beat. He was not unaffected. Of that she was sure. Yet he seemed more intent on the things going on with her: the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against the squared neck of her costume, the sounds she couldn’t keep in the back of her throat no matter how hard she tried.
When she felt his hand on her leg above her thigh-high tights, she stiffened, but then he used the backs of his fingers inside her leg and she thought she might die from the pleasure. His touch was soft, teasing, and shivers ran through her, plucking at the tension binding her until she relaxed, and shifted in her seat to allow him the access he sought.
It took him no time to accept her invitation, his hand moving to the elastic of her panties and beneath. She whimpered at the contact; how long had it been? She was hungry, and if this was the last time a man fed her, she would happily starve for the rest of time. Oh, the things he was doing with his hand. Right there, yes, there. Please, there.
She held tight to his arm, the fabric of his sleeve slipping as he moved, as he aroused her so unbearably she wanted to climb the walls. She needed to go inside. Tennessee and Kaylie could be on their way. She needed to go inside, but she didn’t want to go inside, and she didn’t want Oliver to stop, and she didn’t want to ever lose this feeling, because oh, oh, oh —
Racked with shudders, she bit down on her lip, and tasted blood, and couldn’t even care because her body was a mess of sensation. She melted into the seat, and against him, going limp and spineless. Weakened, she had nothing left. She wasn’t even sure she could walk, and curled her toes, her black-and-yellow-striped spandex stockings squeaking in her shoes.
The noise made her laugh, and the laughter helped ground her. She reached up to brush his hair from his face, then brought his mouth back to hers for a kiss that was as much a thank-you as it was an invitation. It was slinky and silky, her tongue against his, coaxing and sure. But they were done too soon, the car too small for the heat still rising.
“Let’s go inside,” she said, as he pulled back into his seat.
“I’ll walk you to the door, but then I need to go.”
Wait a minute. “So . . . You don’t want to . . .”
He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that answered her better than words. “Of course I want to, but my car being here and me being with you behind closed doors . . .” He shook his head, regretful. “I don’t think your brother finding us together is a good idea.”
That, she couldn’t argue with. But still . . . She was going to go into the house, and he was going to . . . just leave? “I can’t decide if you’re looking out for me, or looking out for yourself.”
His grin widened. “Let’s call it a little bit of both.”
Because all is fair in love and war?
They sat there for a moment after that, neither one moving, neither one speaking, his gaze holding hers, or vice versa, yet neither one able to let go. It was a strange sort of tension, full of unfinished business and this fragile intimacy and questions waiting unanswered in the wings.
And still they sat there, breathing, the motor humming, Indiana flexing the fingers of one hand in the square-dance tiers of her skirt, Oliver flexing his around the steering wheel, until she couldn’t take it anymore.
She beat him to the punch by
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