Page 16 of Car Wash
My knees wobble, and I melt into him. My hands grip the back of his neck, desperate for something to hold onto. My mouth brushes his.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I want to be yours.”
He pulls back just enough to rasp, “What do you want?”
I don't hesitate. “I want you to fuck me.”
A growl rumbles out of him, raw and deep.
“Is that why you didn’t want to wash anyone else’s car?”
I suck in a breath. “How’d you know that?”
“I was watching you,” he says. “And I saw the way you kept looking over at me. Weren’t you?”
I nod. No point hiding it now.
His voice drops. “And this is a new side of you, isn’t it?”
“Completely new,” I whisper. “You have no idea.”
A growl rolls through him. It rumbles.
“And you didn’t want anyone else to see you like this, did you?”
“No,” I breathe. “Only you.”
I look down to see the outline of his huge cock pressing against his pants. Jesus. He’s fucking huge. Something shifts in the air between us. He’s looking at me like he sees straight through the wet shirt, the damp cotton, the innocent front I barely remember putting on.
“And these little shorts,” he murmurs, sliding a hand under my ass, gripping it hard enough to make me gasp, “did you wear them to impress some guy?”
“No,” I rasp, my voice pinched. “I’ve never tried to impress any guy before. Except you, maybe.”
“So you aren’t the good girl you pretend to be.”
“I guess not.”
He grins.
“Goddamn right.”
His mouth is on mine, hungry and hot, tasting like vanilla and sugar. He kisses me like he’s starving. His growl vibrates against my lips, low and rough and completely feral. It might be coming from him. It might be coming from me. I don’t know. AllI know is the world’s gone quiet, narrowed down to his mouth and his hands and the hard press of his cock between my legs.
He breaks the kiss with a breathless curse and grips my tank top, yanking it down until both of my tits bounce free. My bra’s no match for him—he shoves it down to my ribs, then palms my breasts like they’re his to own. His tongue circles one nipple, then the other, warm and wet, teeth grazing as he groans like he’s lost his goddamn mind.
And then—
He grabs the milkshake and tips it just enough to let a thick pink drip fall directly onto one of my nipples.
I gasp. The sugar. The cold. The shock.
He locks eyes with me, his gaze dark and hungry, then bends his head and licks the drop off—slow, filthy, possessive. The cold hit of sugar against my nipple is nothing compared to the molten heat of his tongue. He drags it in a spiral over the tight, aching bud, his breath hot against my skin. My back arches instinctively, every nerve ending firing all at once. My thighs press together, desperate and slick.
A groan rumbles from his chest, low and guttural, like he’s tasting something decadent.
“You taste better than the fucking milkshake,” he mutters, voice thick with need. He tips the cup again, letting another cold, sticky ribbon fall onto my other breast. It hits with a soft splatter, shocking and sweet, and I gasp as goosebumps race down my arms.
His mouth follows the trail without hesitation, tongue warm and greedy as he laps it up, smearing it across both breasts with wide, wet strokes. He groans again, louder this time, and takes one nipple deep into his mouth, sucking hard.
