Page 139 of Heart So Hollow

“No, you’re not my boyfriend.”

“Not yet,” he shoots me a sideways glance, “but I bet you’d let me do a lot of twisted things to you if I was.”

Colson’s voice is enough to bring me right to the edge. I reach up and curl my fingers around his wrist, moving him up and down with the roll of my hips. But he stills his hand, letting the tension fade away. I exhale in frustration, digging my nails into his flesh, which only seems to amuse him.

“What do you like, Brett?” he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, “I bet you have more kinks than a garden hose.”

He’s out for blood now. Probably because I laughed instead of getting jealous about him fucking two girls at once. Well, good, I’ll laugh at the details of his sordid sex life all night long if it gets under his skin.

“C’mon, don’t be shy,” Colson starts circling my clit again as I hiss a breath through my teeth, “what do you think about when you touch yourself?”

He’s so vengeful, clearly paying me back for the comment about the Deltas. I could lie about this, too, but…I don’t really want to. What’s the point? And as much as I don’t want to admit it…I want to tell him.

With an exhale, I relent and let my legs fall further apart. Colson’s satisfaction is audible as he relaxes his hand and fills the dripping space between my thighs.

A chill runs up my back, “You,” I murmur as I bite my lip.

I don’t want to look at him. Saying it is enough. I can’t believe I’m admitting this to anyone, especially him, but I can’t resist. And, besides, he’ll probably know if I’m lying.

“What was that?” Colson stills his hand except for his middle finger tickling my clit, catching my breath and making me writhe in my seat.

Son of a bitch, I gasp, trying to maintain some shred of focus, just say it. He already has his hand down your pants.

“I think about you,” I say between broken breaths, “when I…touch myself…”

Colson’s eyes narrow, but remain on the dark highway, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“OK,” I clench my teeth as he stills his hand, “what do you think about?”

Quid pro quo, motherfucker.

“When?” he asks with feigned ignorance.

I press my lips together in frustration as he toys with me.

“Oh, sorry,” Colson grins, “well, you know when you chew on your pen in class? You do this thing with your tongue where you slide it up and down the underside of your pen, and it’s really fucking hot because you don’t even know you’re doing it. I just have to sit there and watch you for an hour and a half straight every Tuesday and Thursday. It’s pure torture.” He speaks slowly, drawing out every word, “So, when I want a really good one, I imagine you on your knees, looking up at me with those big, beautiful, hazel eyes, and swallowing my dick like it’s your last meal.”

My jaw falls open and I let out a whimper when he finally slides a third finger inside me. I can feel the orgasm building like the slow burn of a wick crawling toward a stick of dynamite.

“Fuck, baby, you can’t imagine all the sick things I’m going to do to you,” he’s thinking about it now, the low hum behind his drawl giving him away, “when I get you in my bed, you’ll spread those legs wide for me and beg me to fuck you until I’m dripping from every hole you have.”

Sensing the quake deep in my core, Colson speeds up his cadence. With a desperate cry, my muscles contract and I dig my nails into his forearm. My head snaps back and my other hand slams into the door, my fingertips turning white as they claw the thin leather below the window. I grind against Colson’s hand with garbled curses on my breath as every nerve in my body fires at once.

When it’s over, I cling to his arm, drawing in deep breaths and basking in the euphoria I’ve never experienced from another human being. It feels different—when something is given rather than taken without a second thought.

Colson lingers until my grip loosens and then gently retracts his hand from my lap, “And, that, Honeybee, is how it’s supposed to be done.”

I watch in awe as he reaches up and slides his index finger into his mouth, sucking it clean. He does the same with his middle and ring ringers and the longer I watch him, the harder it is to sit still.

“Pull over,” I say flatly.

It catches Colson off-guard, but he complies without a word. Three minutes later, he veers off at the next exit onto a dim stretch of road lit only by sporadic light poles rusting into the asphalt.

He pulls the Bronco into a deserted gas station with peeling white paint and broken-out windows. The sign has long faded into a blank, sun-bleached canvas and the pavement bursts with grass and weeds. The only light emits from the street lamp near the road, casting the entire lot in an eerie glow. It looks like the setting of a slasher movie, and a campy one at that. I should be repulsed, terrified we’ll be hacked apart by some masked maniac in the overgrown honeysuckles behind the building, but I’m not.

It’s perfect.

“Get out,” I deadpan as soon as he shifts into park.

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