Page 13 of Off Court Fix

I whimper, but he doesn’t care.

Through panting, heaving breaths, I push out my words. “I... I wanted to do something I normally wouldn’t. That Ishouldn’t.” I whine, trying to resume my movements, but Crosby prevents me.

“It feels good, right?” Crosby asks. “To do something you shouldn’t?”

I nod fervently.

“Like let a complete stranger touch you?”

My lips rub so hard together that I know they’ll be swollen as if we’ve kissed deeply for hours on end when, in reality, they haven’t even touched. But touch me elsewhere, Crosby does, finally slipping a finger inside. My head falls back to the seat.

“Tellme, Amy.”

“Yes,” I breathe out. “I wanted you to touch me.”

He presses his hand firmer into and against me and I clench to hold him there. “Only touch you?”

I whimper and shake my head back and forth.

Crosby’s tongue snakes out of his mouth, running along my ear. “Words,” he lectures. “Use yourwords.”

He wants words? With a gun to my head, I bet I couldn’t recite the alphabet.

“Say it, Amy.”

I nearly lose my mind, but I manage. “I wanted you to fuck me.”

His lips curl into a smile against my ear.

In a split second, Crosby abandons me but presses a hand to my shoulder as he somehow maneuvers over the console between us into the backseat. The sound of his belt buckle clanging and the zipper teeth pulling make me shiver with anticipation.

“Panties off.”

The rip of a package—a condom—sounds from behind me as I raise my hips, pulling my underwear down and tossing them to the floor of the front seat.

“Come,” Crosby orders, holding a hand out.

I’m so weak and turned on I’m not sure how I manage to climb into the back, but with half effort, Crosby helps me the rest of the way. Before I know it, I’m straddling him, aching and hovering over the remedy, but Crosby holds my hips still.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he tells me. Crosby’s words flow naturally and easily from his mouth as if he’s been saying them his entire life, as if he sees all of me even though it’s nearly pitch-black.

Strong fingers ghost all over my body, back to front, ass to breast, squeezing and gripping enough to drive me crazy and force me not above begging as I try to sink lower. A whine escapes my throat when his hold on my hip tightens, fingers digging painfully into my flesh as I fight to move.

“Wait.” Crosby’s words dust across my lips before he reminds me, “I gave up peanuts...”

He slides his hand from my waist to cup my cheek, and it’s only now—when I can tell he’s about to kiss me—that I’m afraid. But I’m still not scared of him, of being alone in a car with my underwear off and my dress hiked up to my waist, the only curtains of privacy the rip-roaring monsoon outside. No. I’m terrified of what kind of drug he’ll feed into my mouth—how amazing it will be to feel his breath against my lips the moment he slips inside.

Like alcohol, painkillers, I’m terrified I’ll end up consumed by it.

And between pounding pulses, it’s not only his lips half a breath from my own that I fear, but also the entirety of our position, of being face-to-face, chest-to-chest. It’s strong enough to sober me up out of this lusty haze—just enough.

As if he knows he could call my bluff, Crosby doesn’t say anything when I release my hand from his shoulder, and he lets his hand fall from my side without a fight when I swing my right leg over his lap, turning away from him. I know part of him expects me to crawl back into the front seat, slip my panties on, and hightail it out of his car.

How do I know?

Crosby hisses in happy surprise when instead of returning to the front seat, I lean over the console, placing my upper body—my mouth, my heart—safely out of his grasp. I offer him the rest of me instead.

“It’s peanuts,” I say, my chest beating against the leather. Bravery and boldness strike me like no other when my gaze is out of Crosby’s sight. “Compared to this, it’ll be nothing.”

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