Page 3 of Back Seat Baby

Samir grunts and drops my weight back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my hips. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions.

I quietly sink into the soothing rhythm of his chest rising and falling against my back. If my legs and hips didn’t hurt so much, I think Samir’s even breathing and the rocking of the Tahoe rolling along the highway would lull me to sleep. It would be a better way to pass the time than staring at a cardboard wall of boxes and wondering what the hell has gotten into my step-brother. This is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving.

“Thanks,” I whisper after a few minutes, and he nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore.

We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s awful rendition of Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down, Samir’s long fingers slowly flexing around my round hips with each bump on the road that jostles my weight.

I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me, “They still hurt?” There’s that uncharacteristic caring tone again.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around to my front, creating a riot of butterflies that take flight in my stomach.

“Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice.

After reaching up and grabbing onto Samir’s headrest, I do as he says. My heart thunders in my chest when he slowly drags the hem of my T-shirt up to my belly button and slips his hands under the waistband of my leggings. Before I can question what on earth he’s doing, he digs his thumbs into the aching muscles in the crease where my thighs meet my torso.

My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hell that Dad didn’t hear me above the Three Days Grace song he’s belting out.

Samir freezes for a few seconds, then sucks in a deep breath when I moan again as he starts massaging my muscles with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. Embarrassingly, I unintentionally swivel my hips once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pussy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white thong.

When I roll my hips for a third time, his hands slip lower under my leggings, though he can’t go much farther with how tight the compression material is. His splayed hands are as wide as the tops of my thighs, and he starts massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again.

“Fuck, Samir,” I moan breathily. It just slips out, and Samir releases a jagged exhale.

He digs his fingertips deliciously into my skin, relieving all my aches, and it feels so damn good. Sublime. I moan louder as my eyes drift closed, thankful that Dad turns the volume up even higher when a Metallica song comes on, concealing the noises I can’t seem to stop making. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan of pleasure in case Dad abruptly cuts the music off, but there’s no masking the way I’m breathing harder, faster, practically panting with each pass of Samir’s strong hands.

There’s no masking how his breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle.

What is happening to us?

I whimper and deflate at the sudden loss of heat when Samir slides his hands out of my leggings, knowing I’ve embarrassed myself and probably made him severely uncomfortable with my behavior. God, I can’t believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I’ve gone and freaked myself out, unable to ignore my feelings like I usually do, so I can only imagine how much worse it is for him.

But then my breath stutters and my heart pounds hard against my ribs with anticipation—and trepidation—when Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Lift your hips for me again.”

For me. He said for me in that deep bass voice of his, and I’m officially dripping wet now. I nod quickly with another whimper and yet again do as he says.

“Good girl,” he growls.

Chapter 3

Becca

Just those two little words coming from the man who usually can’t stand being in my presence for more than thirty seconds rocks me to my core, which is drenched with need. I clench my eyes shut and try to get my heart rate under control as Samir stretches and drags the wide waistband of my leggings over my ass and down my thighs to my shaky knees.

We simultaneously gasp when I drop my weight back onto his lap. Since I chose to wear a thong today so I wouldn’t have any visible panty lines that would show through my leggings, there’s nothing but the soft cloth of his gray sweatpants and whatever he’s wearing underneath them as a barrier between him and the bare skin of my ass.

“Oh god,” I cry out when he digs his thumbs into the crease of my thighs harder and works them inward toward my pussy until they meet the edges of the front of my thong before stopping for a beat. Just when I think he’s going to push them under the fabric, he slides his hands down my thighs to massage my quads, then back up again. He creates a circuit, repeating the pattern several times as I unintentionally writhe over his lap.

His legs have been a solid slab of muscle beneath me the entire drive, but when he moans my name and grips my hips to grind my ass back and forth forcefully over his lap, I feel it. A bulge. A huge, rock-hard bulge buried under his sweatpants and between my ass cheeks. The sound Samir makes when I wiggle side to side, nestling his bulge between my cheeks as I arch my back, has my blood rushing hot in my veins.

I could just combust when he rumbles in a gravelly voice, “Such a good girl for me.” He helps me rock over his bulge, both of us breathing hard as his bulge swells and lengthens. “Fuck, Becca. This ass…” His hands drift down to palm and squeeze my ass cheeks as I take over, rocking and bouncing my hips, helped along by the Tahoe speeding over a few potholes on the road.

I’m so wet now that my thong isn’t the only thing that’s soaked—his sweatpants are, too. He makes a low, throaty groan, and I yelp with surprise when he flattens a hand between my shoulder blades and shoves me forward so that I nearly smack into the cardboard wall.

There’s the sound of shuffling and rustling of clothes behind me, and I’d be embarrassed about my ass being practically right in my step-brother’s face if I weren’t so worked up. Samir reaches between my thighs, hooks his fingers in the fabric of my thong, and wrenches it to the side, exposing my wet, bare pussy. I know he can see everything while I’m in this position, and for some reason, that makes me even hotter. So hot that I can barely catch my breath, dizzied by adrenaline and excitement.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Samir grits out, and I jolt when he swipes his fingers through my slit twice and unexpectedly drives two of his fingers into my pussy.

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