Page 3 of Texas
Later, when the room is quiet except for the hum of the struggling air conditioner, and Cindi is curled against me, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my chest, I let myself feel something I haven’t in a long time.
Content.
It won’t last, I know that. But for tonight, it’s enough.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow I ride.
Three
By the time I hit the road again, the sun’s already high enough to fry eggs on the pavement. My thighs are still tight from last night, and the memory of my mouth on Cindi keeps playing on a loop I can’t shut off. I thought a good fuck would take the edge off. Burn out some of the tension riding me harder than my Harley ever could. Instead, it’s like pouring gasoline on a fire. My appetite’s not curbed. It’s sharpened. Hungrier now, like my body remembered what it’s been missing and wants more. A lot more.
I probably could’ve stayed another night. Climbed back on top of Cindi and rode her into the next sunrise. She would’ve said yes. Hell, she might’ve begged for it. But I’m not built for staying, never have been, so one night’s enough. Any more than that and it starts feeling like roots, and I don’t do roots.
So I ride.
It’s the only thing that seems to make sense right now. Motion. Forward, always forward. The idea of stopping feels like sinking, and I’ve had enough of drowning for one lifetime. I don’t need a map or a plan. Just fuel in the tank and a horizon to chase. The hum of the engine is something I can trust. It drowns out the noise inside my head.
The road stretches out in front of me, and the roar of the engine vibrates through my thighs again. It’s like foreplay. Dangerous, addictive foreplay. My clit pulses in time with the hum of the bike, and I shift in the saddle, trying to ignore the ache building between my legs. That’s when I see it. A squat, sun-bleached building off the highway, wedged between a truck stop and a half-collapsed billboard that used to advertise Jesus. The sign above the door is missing a few letters, but I can still make it out: “ADULT BOOKS & TOYS – OPEN 24 HOURS.”
There are two dusty trucks in the lot and a beat-up sedan with tinted windows that looks like it’s been there a while. As in weeks. Overall, I imagine it’s the kind of place that smells like cheap lube and bad decisions. The windows are smudged with handprints and dust, and the cracked concrete parking lot radiates heat like a furnace. A plastic sign hangs crooked in the front window, blinking a tired ‘OPEN’ in red neon. I already know this place has seen stories.
I pull in, kill the engine, and swing a leg off the bike. With no wind to cool me, the heat hits me like a slap, but I welcome it. Keeps me sharp. Keeps me from getting too soft. The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, and the scent of rubber, leather, and artificial cherry hits me in the face. The air conditioning is barely working, but it’s better than outside. The place is dimly lit, rows of shelves lined with DVDs, lube bottles, and toys in every size, shape, and color. There’s a whole aisle dedicated to dildos. Some realistic, some neon pink monstrosities that look like they came from a sci-fi movie. I’m pretty sure one of them’s got tentacles. Incredible. I walk slowly, taking it all in.
Stopping in front of a shelf labeled “Double the Trouble,” I pick up a thick purple double-ended dildo, turning it in my hands. It’s got weight. Texture. I snort a laugh. This one could do damage in all the right ways.
“Looking for something… satisfying?” a voice says behind me.
I turn to see the shop’s clerk leaning against the end of the aisle, arms crossed, one brow raised. She’s hot in a very fuck-me-now kind of way. Tight black tank top, low-rise jeans, dark red lipstick that makes her mouth look sinful. Her hair’s jet black, shaved on one side, the rest falling in messy waves over her shoulder. Tattoos snake up both arms. Roses, skulls, a switchblade on her forearm. She looks like trouble, but there’s a confidence to her stance that pulls me in. She doesn’t just look ready, she looks like she hopes I’ll try something. My pulse kicks up a notch. Every instinct in me sharpens, hunting for a reason to linger longer than I should.
Right now, she’s exactly my type. “Depends what you’ve got,” I say, spinning the dildo in my hand like a baton.
She gives me a wicked smile. “Oh, honey. We’ve got everything.” She steps closer, hips swaying just a little too much to be accidental. Her name tag says “Jax.” Of course it does. Jax gestures toward the back corner. “Strap-on section’s over here. You look like a butch who knows how to use one.”
Following her, I watch the way her jeans cling to her ass. “You always this helpful with customers?”
“Only the ones who look like they can make a girl scream.”
I chuckle low in my throat. “That’s a dangerous thing to say out loud.”
“I like dangerous.”
We stop in front of a wall lined with harnesses and dildos of every shade and girth. Some are so big I wonder who’s brave enough to take them. Others are sleek and curved, made for precision. I reach for a thick black silicone one. About eight inches, slightly curved, with a ridged base and a matte finish that screams business.
“That one’s popular,” Jax says, stepping close enough that her arm brushes mine. “Hits the right spot. If you know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
She leans in, her voice a whisper. “You planning on testing it out?” Looking around, I see the place is dead. No customers in sight. Just the hum of the AC and the soft buzz of a porn video playing on a screen behind the counter.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “You offering?”
Her pupils widen just a touch. “Maybe. You thinking about it?”
Turning the toy in my hand again, my eyes drag over her curves. “I’m thinking you’d look damn good bent over that counter.”
The woman doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blush. She simply steps in closer until her chest brushes mine. “You are not worried someone might come in?”
