Page 94 of Lace 'em Up

I want to drive deeper, to grip her hair and fuck that lush mouth.

But she’s naked and blowing me after I got to eat her out on the hood of my car—giving light to a fantasy I didn’t know I had.

A fantasy we’re going to reenact again.

Right after?—

I give into the urge to dive my fingers into her hair, but it’s to pull her off me, not drive deep. I flip her around, press her front on the hood of my car, kick her legs wide, and have just enough control to roll on the condom from my wallet before I plunge inside that tight, wet cunt.

She gasps.

I groan. “Fucking perfect,” I grunt, thrusting into her. “You are. So. Fucking. Perfect.”

“King!” she moans, hips pressing back against me, ass jiggling, head thrown back, mouth parted as my name dances off the tip of her tongue.

Beautiful.

Mine.

“Oh my God!” she cries out. “King. I?—”

She’s close.

Damned close.

Which is good, because I’m going to come.

I grip her waist, change the angle just enough to ensure that she topples over the edge before me, and then allow her clamping pussy to drag me under.

“King,” she groans, meeting me thrust for thrust as we both come down, as our movements slow and grow lazy, nuzzling my throat when I find the strength to pull out, to hold her close, to carry her up into bed.

Once we’re both under the covers, the condom’s taken care of, and the house is locked up (and our clothes retrieved from the garage floor), she settles her hand on my chest, just over my heart.

“You played great tonight,” she whispers.

“Thanks,” I whisper back, lazily tracing my hand over her skin, making random patterns. “And thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” Her lips press to my flesh, and for a long moment she doesn’t say anything else. But then, as my eyes are drifting shut, she murmurs, “What did you mean earlier?”

You’re not your father.

Fear coils at the base of my spine, but I push the voice down, ask, “What do you mean?”

It’s a casual question, but she reads right through it, through me. “Earlier in the car, honey,” she says. “You said you’re never there at the right time, but…”

I grind my teeth together, want to slam the door closed on this discussion.

Except…she gave me so much in the car, shared so fucking much, was so fucking open and brave and vulnerable?—

How can I possibly keep my idiotic trauma to myself?

It’s nothing like what she went through.

Nothing.

I open my mouth.

“Because—for me—you seem to always be there at the right time.”

---