Page 137 of Heart So Hollow

My eyes fly open and I clench my jaw in surprise.

Colson doesn’t take his eyes off the road, “I don’t know how tight your pussy is,” he shrugs, “I’m just making an educated guess. But it’s distracting.”

He slowly drags his fingers over my leggings, feeling every one of my contours. Soon, his movements follow the rise and fall of my breathing, which becomes more labored by the second.

“I didn’t think I’d get another chance after I was such a dick to you at Cade and Anderson’s,” he casts me a sideways glance, “I thought it’d be fun—string you along for a couple hours, really get you going, it would’ve been so fucking hot.”

I do a double-take.

Is he telling me how he was trying to manipulate me?

Yes, he definitely is. And he’s doing it with his hand between my legs.

“What?” I hiss, “Why would you do that?” But my attempt at confrontation sounds more like the whining of a petulant child than anything else.

“Yeah, you got really mad, really quick,” he snickers.

Is he seriously trying to have a whole conversation about this right now, confessing his transgressions toward me?

Yes, he is. And maybe you even like it.

“But then I realized that you have self-respect and aren’t going to take any of my selfish bullshit, which told me something else.”

“Like what?” I mumble between breaths.

“You have confidence,” he says as the corner of his mouth curls, “so, I bet you fuck like a filthy slut.”

My chest caves and his words render me utterly speechless.

He’s still doing it. He’s trying to manipulate you now.

“Am I wrong?” Colson asks with a hint of amusement.

“What?” Now I’ve lost my train of thought.

Is he wrong? Maybe he should ask Trey Schneider, who wanted to know how many times I came after aimlessly pounding me for five minutes in his bedroom at the Sig house right before winter break. After that, I decided to be more selective—and make sure my birth control prescription was up to date.

So, do I fuck like a filthy slut? Maybe, just not with Trey Schneider.

Colson’s hand wanders under the hem of my t-shirt, running back and forth at the edge of my leggings. He’s slow and deliberate, until finally he dips his fingers beneath my waistband and pushes them beneath my black thong. My muscles go rigid and my lungs fill with air at the sensation of his hand on my skin. He reaches further, sliding his fingers over my pussy and coating them in the thick heat already pooling there.

“Oh,” Colson breathes, “Brett’s been keeping secrets.”

He teases my entrance as his fingers glide back up to my clit, rubbing slow, hard circles around it with his newly acquired lubrication. I’m too slow to stifle the split-second moan that escapes my throat.

At that, Colson glances at his hand buried in my leggings and then gives a nod to my lap, “Does she want some attention, too?” I sink into the seat with a gasp as he feels for the wettest part and slips one finger inside me, and then another.

He gapes while he explores, his mouth curling into a ravenous grin, “Shit,” he mutters, “you’re tighter than I thought.” He tries to slide a third finger inside me, eliciting a high-pitched moan, “Fuck, baby,” he smiles, “my dick might split you in two.”

I cock one eyebrow, “You fucking wish.” As hard as I try to sound scornful at his arrogance, it only comes out as desperate.

“Brett Sorensen,” Colson grins at the highway, “sweet as honey but stings like a bee…don’t worry, you’ll be good and ready by the time we get back.” He slides his fingers out and focuses on my clit, moving in rapid circles that nearly make me fold in on myself, “Do you like games, Brett?”

“What games?” I stammer as my hips grind against his hand, wishing he would just finish me.

“I ask you a question, you answer it, but if you don’t,” he stills his hand and lets the pleasure dissipate, “I stop.”

“What about you?” my voice cracks with indignance, “Why do you get to ask all the questions?”

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