Page 14 of Off Court Fix

Crosby must like my audacity because he doesn’t miss a beat. I’m surprised by the speed of his reaction, how he doesn’t let another second go by before he’s gripping my hips and yanking me back, my chest dragging along the console, only to send my upper body forward again with a powerful, intense thrust of his hips.

I didn’t just want this, Ineededit, all of it. Crosby’s heavy breathing, the sounds that sneak out between his clenched teeth when he angles his hips, somehow hitting me deeper. It’s the grip he has on my waist, controlling and powerful, and the feel of the carpeted mats my knees rest on rubbing my skin raw.

When one hand moves from my side and slithers around to nestle between my thighs, I slam my fist into the empty cupholder in front of me.

“You might want to hold on to the gear shift, darling.” Crosby growls when I take his advice, as if the obedience turns him on. “You like it... that someone could walk by this car and know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

I whimper my response because it’s true. Knowing we could be caught is like peeling back another layer. With the force Crosby moves, I know the heavy SUV must be rocking in some way. Even with the rain, it wouldn’t be entirely hidden.

And I don’t care. Not one bit.

Whatever air I’ve attempted to swallow down with short pants is expelled from my lungs when Crosby leans forward, pressing his weight to mine. His soft sweater—slightly damp—rubs against my lower back, a stark difference between the stubble lining his face that scratches deliciously against my ear when he growls, “Say it.”

“I love it.”

It’s the fullness, the pacing, the way he throbs, each circle of his fingers that guides me higher. I want to live in this moment forever. But I’m fighting an impossible tenseness in my body, and I’m at a loss. The only thing that loosens and softens me is the feel of Crosby’s smile against my cheek.

“Tell me what you want.”

I can barely hold my head up and press my face to the console, my sweat streaking the cushioned leather. “More,” I mewl. “God... please more.” My voice cracks, victim to everything about Crosby—his touch, his scent, his husky voice, teeth nicking.

“If you wanted God, you should’ve stayed in that church.” The next thrust is followed by a delicious roll of his hips. “Show me now, show me how you want to makemehappy. Fuck, nothing beats you squeezing my cock like this. Except you letting go. Let go.”

And I do. In the cramped space, I hear myself, I hear Crosby encouraging me through it.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Good girl.”

I don’t just see stars. I soar out of the car—out of my body—and I land beyond the rain clouds where the night sky is still clear and glistening.

A hand on my waist tightens, and Crosby’s movements become faster, more frantic, as if he’s like me, trying to chase the impossible high of nirvana.

And he stills, squeezing me. The intensity of his grip, the sound he lets out, a hum of a hymn, feel almost as good as everything that’s hit me up until that point.

Crosby lowers himself to me, and I let him while I try to recover enough strength to lift my body to push him off. But he stops.

“Wait,” he says, pressing his forehead to my shoulder.

My hair has all slid to the opposite side, leaving my neck exposed, and I’m back to the lamb in front of the lion, the position as if I’ve laid down at my most vulnerable. And Crosby seizes the moment. He presses his lips to my sprinting pulse, the kiss tender and soft—exactly opposite of how he just was.

I want to hate it. I wantAmyto hate it. Because she’s bold and brave and says what she wants, and what I wish I could say isget off me,don’t make this into something it’s not. Because now, Crosby is placing more soft kisses along my flesh, his hand rubbing my arm before coming up to pull the back collar of my dress down so he can find more skin to tenderize with his lips.

“Don’t,” I breathe out heavily, and I’m thankful he stops, only rubbing his forehead against me before he pushes back completely.

I take a deep breath before climbing into the front seat, and then I pull my dress back down and search for my underwear.

The rain has finally begun to lessen, and I can hear Crosby shifting as he pulls his pants up. “Let me drive you home.”

“It’s okay. I can walk.”

He climbs over, and I lean over to give him more space. “It’s not. And I’m a gentleman. I wouldn’t let any woman walk alone at night.”

I look at the console I took a pounding against and wonder if that’s what a gentleman does. “If I wanted a gentleman,” I say, “I would’ve made you buy me dinner first.”

Crosby starts the car. “If that’s your idea of a gentleman, you haven’t met one yet.”

“There’s a saying that there’s no guy nicer in the world than one who wants to sleep with you.”

“And yet here I am, still offering to drive you home afterward.”

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