Page 33 of Plunge

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Thistle

I HAVE NO idea why I stand up and pull Fletcher toward my mother’s station wagon, or why I open the back and crawl into the hatch with him.

“I want to fuck you,” he whispers from behind me, his teeth on my neck like they were in the elevator that night in Philadelphia. And just like then, I want it very badly.

Maybe it feels like penance. Maybe he’s hot as fuck now that he’s a man instead of a teenager. Anyway, I want to fuck him, too.

We climb in the car and start pulling our clothes off as he kneels behind me. The parking lot is pretty desolate, and his borrowed Prius stands between us and the building. It feels just private enough that I give in to the moment. He starts stroking my body as he peels off my leggings, and I moan, loving every touch.

It feels dangerous, being here with him on edge like this. I like it.

I gasp when he pulls my panties down with a hard yank and slaps my ass. There’s nothing loving or gentle or exploratory about what he’s doing now.

This is raw and primal. And I love it. I crave it. I spin around and reach for his shirt, struggling to get it off and over his head. I nearly scream when Fletcher reaches a cold finger between my legs.

“Shit, you like this,” he says, feeling my arousal. I love how wild I feel right now. After weeks of frustration and isolation, feeling completely out of my element, I feel at home in my skin. So present. Just like the night in the hotel.

“I can’t get you out of my head lately,” he says, lazily stroking my body until I’m almost whimpering.

I shiver. “I think about you, too,” I say. I start to wonder if he really wants to fuck me as I am now, or if it’s the idea of me. In Philly, we said we wanted closure. One last time to finish what we couldn’t before.

What is this, I wonder. But he pinches my nipple through my shirt, just how I like, and I stop caring.

Fletcher spins me around and bends me over and I hear the rasp of his zipper as he undoes his pants. I brace my weight on back of the seat in front of me and look over my shoulder, asking, “Do you have protection?”

He snorts. “Always, Thistle. I learned my lesson. Trust me.” As he talks, I watch him roll on a condom and I lick my lips in anticipation of what I know is about to happen.

Still, nothing prepares me for the sensation when he plunges inside me. His cock is hot and hard and fills me. I feel myself stretch around him and I groan as even more wetness seeps out of me, adding to the slick sensation of him sliding in and out.

Fletcher doesn’t say anything, but one hand hooks around my hip, holding me as he thrusts. He grunts from the effort and I close my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me. God, it feels good to just do something reckless.

The windows fog up with the heat of our exertion.

I feel the sensations building, the pleasure an inch away, and I reach between my legs to touch myself while Fletcher is pounding into me. But he moves my hand away and replaces it with his own. His long fingers find a forgotten rhythm on my clit and soon I am moaning and arching my back. So close.

“Fuck yes, Thistle,” he grunts. “Come. Right now. Do it.”

I’m panting and writhing beneath him and he tightens his grip on my hip, holding me immobile. I buck back against him, bouncing my hips off his body. “Don’t tell me what to do,” I grunt. “Everyone’s fucking telling me what to do right now and I hate it.”

I look over my shoulder again and his eyes flare. He has a fine sheen of sweat on his face, his eyes dark in concentration and lust. He doesn’t say anything else, but slams into me harder, pulling me back as he thrusts in and he flattens the pad of his finger against my clit.

My muscles begin to spasm around him and when he releases my hip to pinch my nipples, I unravel. I come, hard, and sink down over the back seat, muffling my scream in the fabric.

As the waves of my orgasm subside, I feel him pull out. I look behind me in time to see him rip off the condom and stroke his dick until he comes, spurting onto my back with a grunt.

After, he kneels there, panting and looking at me. One of his hands drops to the pool of come on my back, his finger tracing through the hot mess. Both of us begin to slow our breathing and come back to the present.

In a few minutes, he clears his throat and reaches around for an old rag in the hatch, dabbing at my back. “Thanks,” I say, brushing my hair up and off my face with my forearm. I twist around until I’m sitting down, trying to wriggle back into my underwear. Fletcher sinks down next to me.

He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. “That was something,” he says.

“Sure was,” I reply. And then I feel the approaching awkwardness. That wasn’t like anything we’d done together before. Not even a kiss. Just fucking. But it was hot. Adult Fletcher has some stamina and moves. The thought makes me smile.

We sit for awhile until he stretches and asks, “So now that we’ve deflowered your ride, what vehicle would you prefer to be driving?”

I close my eyes and rub my temples in small circles. I feel a headache building. “Ugh, don’t remind me of my car.”

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