Page 5 of Texas
I don’t.
I slam into her, the couch creaking under us, her ass bouncing against my hips. Her hands are white-knuckled around the top of the couch, her body shaking with every thrust. I reach around and find her clit, rubbing it in tight circles as I fuck her deep and relentless. She’s so wet, lube’s unnecessary, her slick coating the base of the toy, dripping down her thighs.
“God,” she gasps. “I’m gonna, fuck yes, I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” I growl, pinching her clit hard. “Now.”
She shatters. Her whole body locks up, then convulses, a broken moan ripping from her throat as she comes hard around the toy, her muscles clenching so tight I feel it through the harness. I keep fucking her through it, dragging it out, making her ride every wave until she’s slumped against the couch, panting. But I’m not done. I pull out, unbuckle the cuffs, and turn her around. Her legs are shaky, but I help her lie back, propping her ankles up on the arms of the couch, spreading her wide. Her pussy’s red and swollen, twitching with aftershocks, but her eyes are wild with want.
“More?” I ask.
She nods, biting her lip. “Please.”
I slide back in, this time slow and deep, watching her face contort with pleasure. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me in tighter, and I fuck her like I own her. Long strokes, grinding against her clit with every thrust. I lean down, kiss her hard, my tongue claiming her mouth while my hips claim the rest. She comes again. And again. And again.
“Oh, God,” she screams. “I can’t stop coming.” By the fifth orgasm, she is dripping juice everywhere, ruining the already fucked up couch. I slow down, stroking her hair as she trembles beneath me, her body limp with satisfaction.
Pulling out gently, I unstrap the harness and drop it to the floor. She watches me through hooded eyes as I sit beside her, pull her into my lap. Her skin’s hot, her breath still ragged, her lips kiss-swollen and perfect. “You okay?” I ask, brushing her hair back.
She nods, dazed. “Better than okay.”
I nod. “Good.”
She leans in and kisses me, soft and slow this time, like a thank you. I let her. There’s a freedom in moments like this, no names, no numbers, no promises. Just raw hunger met with equal need. I don’t kid myself that it means more, but thatdoesn’t make it meaningless. And I already know how this ends. In a few minutes, I’ll be back on the bike with the strap-on in my saddlebag. The road will swallow me up again, and this room will be nothing but a memory. But fuck if it won’t be a good one.
Four
The sun’s hanging low, burning orange across the horizon. I’ve got an itchy feeling crawling up the back of my neck, the kind that seems to mean I’ve been riding too long without food, water, or a destination worth a damn. The Harley’s humming beneath me, steady as ever, but the heat’s sticking to me. I need a break. A shower. Definitely something cold to drink. I spot a gas station up ahead. It’s got a half-lit sign that says something like “GAS-N-GO” and a Coke machine out front. Nothing fancy, but it’ll do.
I pull in slow and coast to a stop at the pump directly across from a cherry red Corvette convertible. And sitting behind the wheel? Trouble. And wearing sunglasses that look expensive enough to buy the whole damn gas station. Her hair’s a mess of dark curls pinned up, and her lipstick matches the car. Even without seeing the rest of her, she’s got that energy. The kind that says she knows exactly what she looks like and doesn’t give a single fuck about the consequences.
The gas station attendant, a skinny kid with acne and a name tag that says “Tanner,” is trying to fill her tank without openly drooling. He’s failing. Miserably. I keep my eyes on the pumpbeside me, pulling off my helmet and setting it on the tank, but I feel her watching me.
“Nice bike,” she says, her voice smooth, low. A Texas drawl, but not too thick. I look and meet her gaze. The sunglasses are down enough for me to see eyes the color of bourbon.
“Thanks,” I say, giving her a nod. “Nice car.”
She gives me a sexy smile. “She rides smooth…” Hesitates for a beat before adding, “But I bet your girl between your legs vibrates better.”
I blink once. Damn. What is it with bold women in Texas? “Depends who’s riding her,” I say, matching her grin.
With a laugh that’s full and rich, she sounds like she doesn’t take anything too seriously, including me. “Well, I hope she gets you where you’re going, soldier.”
My spine stiffens at the word. Not because she’s wrong, my dog tags still hang around my neck, tucked under my shirt, but because it means she sees more than most. I don’t answer right away. She leans back in her seat, tossing cash at Tanner like it’s nothing.
“Enjoy the road,” she says, and then she’s gone.
Tires squeal a little as she peels out, red taillights winking at me. I exhale slowly, watching her go, my body still humming from the short exchange. I imagine she could be the kind of woman who leaves wreckage in her wake. And I’m the kind of woman who usually walks away before I become part of it. Still, I feel that little tug in my gut as the Corvette disappears down the highway.
Tanner’s still standing there, mouth half open. I raise an eyebrow at him. “You got a hotel anywhere near?” I ask, and he snaps out of it.
“Uh, yeah. Next town over, Dogwood Bluff, about twenty miles. Couple motels. Nothing fancy.”
“Don’t need fancy,” I mutter, grabbing the pump handle to fill my tank. “Just need a bed and a door that locks.” Sometimes that’s all I need. Just a door, a lock, and a few hours to stop pretending I’ve got it all handled. Some people assume freedom like mine feels like flying, but sometimes it feels more like floating in space, weightless, untethered.
Tank full, I take off, tires spitting gravel as I roll back onto Route 69. Thankfully, as the day heads toward twilight, the heat’s starting to break. I shift gears and settle into the ride, but my mind’s still replaying the woman in the Corvette’s smirk, the way she said “soldier” like it was a compliment and a challenge all at once. I’m a few miles out when I come around a bend and see her.
The Corvette’s pulled off to the side of the road, hazard lights blinking against the fading light. Hood up. Driver’s side door open. And her? She’s crouched next to the passenger-side tire, looking like she’s about to murder someone with those sunglasses still perched on her nose. I slow down, pull up behind her, and kill the engine. Pulling off the sunglasses, she looks up, and I swear I see a flicker of something cross her face. Surprise. Annoyance. Amusement. Maybe all three.
