Page 101 of Smut

“Relax,” he says. “No one is going to see.” With his hand he deftly undoes the button of my shorts and works the zipper down.

“Those seniors reading the free newspaper might see!” I tell him.

He looks over his shoulder and grins back at me with those bloody dimples. He really does wield them like a weapon. “I really doubt it.”

He leans over a fraction more, his hand slipping down into my underwear, down into my cleft. Surprise, surprise, I’m wet as hell already.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, his languid eyes taking me in, watching me, as he glides over me, his fingers long, hard, slick.

Fuck.

I know I really should keep my eyes open, pretend this isn’t going on, act natural.

But I want to feel it. Every inch of it.

I close my eyes and rest my head back, melting into the seat and into his touch.

My body prickles with need, so aware of everything. The diesel smell of the ferry exhaust, the salt air coming in through the window, Blake’s heavy breathing, the faint, wet sound of his fingers slowly working me. It’s not long before the car smells like sex.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he tells me. “Just like this. Just taking what I’m giving you.”

His fingers continue in the lazy motion, like he’s beckoning me, but I want more, so much more. My hips start to rock into his hand, my own hands gripping the seat and armrest.

Friction. I need more friction.

For once in my life, I’m too fucking wet.

He groans, withdrawing his hand for a beat and then easing it back in. Teasing me.

I whimper—soft, eager little noises.

“Tell me,” he whispers hoarsely, and even the sound of his voice is a turn-on. “Tell me what you want.”

I normally don’t tell guys what I want in bed. But I think that’s Blake’s point.

He drags his fingers down, teasing at my entrance.

“Tell me,” he repeats.

“To come,” I moan breathlessly. “More pressure, your fingers inside.”

He slides his fingers inside me and I gasp, my body clenching around him, holding on, wanting more, so much more where that came from.

“You like that?” he asks, and I know he’s watching every inch of my response but I don’t care. I like it. I love it. I fucking need it.

“More,” I whisper just as he slides his fingers out and comes back in, thicker, with his thumb now rubbing my clit. All the tension inside me spreads and tightens and glows and I know I can’t hold back any longer.

I want to tell him to keep going.

But I can’t speak.

It doesn’t matter that this is happening in plain view of the people on the ferry, it doesn’t matter that I feel so bare and vulnerable with Blake once again. It’s been this way from the start, from our first encounter in the library. Hell, even before that. When I was writing my heart out, baring my soul for him.

None of it matters because I’m in the here and now and all I feel is a part of him inside me, moving through me in a way no one has.

I come in an explosion, a firecracker, a bomb.

I cry out, soft at first and then louder as the waves grip me, shake me, loosen everything inside me that wants to hold on. My fingers squeeze the seat and armrest until they cramp up, my body jerking with each spasm until they slowly fade away, leaving me in a puddle of bliss.

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