Page 45 of Please, Sir

The first groan he lets me hear out loud is so sexy. A knot of emotion clogs my throat. Making him feel good is a high, lifting stress from the top of my head and unburdening the tightness in my chest.

He fucks my tits as I watch his face, his dark gaze flickering between my eyes and my breasts.

His groans deepen, gaining frequency, and the desire burning between my legs reaches an all time high. “Open your mouth,” he grits out, nostrils flared as he grips his cock at the head, aiming the wide, dark slit at my mouth.

My lips part and my tongue juts out just in time to catch the first ribbon of cum. Warm and thick, his cum is both tart and mild, and makes my cheeks burn with how eager I am to swallow.

I’ve never swallowed before.

“Fuuck,” he groans, stroking his cum out on my tits and face, the feel of him sliding down my skin pushing me over the edge.

My body clenches, and the tight coil of desire in my belly unspools, making my thighs tremble and shake as I come. My belly goes rigid, trying to stay still for him, to be the canvas he needs me to be.

His thumb curves over his head before he steps back, shoving his still hard cock into his boxers. He looks at me,covered in his cum with his hat on my head, and there’s a sated stillness in his expression I’ve never seen.

My chest practically explodes at the idea that I pleased him, that I made him feel good and happy. I gave him that, I pleasured him. And today, I gave him something special.

He extends a hand to me, and pulls me to my feet. Swiping his shirt from the ground, he shakes it out, sending bits of gravel and dust everywhere. Around us, the rain slows to a trickle, and he uses his shirt to wipe his cum from my chin and neck, off my breasts and belly. He moves slowly, and our eyes come together every few seconds, filling the moment with a quiet intimacy. I reach out, stroking my fingers through the ends of his hair as he wipes the last of his orgasm off my skin.

“I’m sorry about your panties,” he says, scooping them off the floorboard of the truck.

I hold out my palm to collect them, even though they’re torn in half and can’t be worn again. But Jake Turner’s lips quirk at the sides, and his eyes flash with something sinister.

He stuffs my torn, wet panties into his pocket, and says, “These are mine.”

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

I don’t knowwhat just happened. Or what is still currently happening, but all I know is… I don’t want it to stop.

I grab a shirt from the back and tug it down, tossing the dirty shirt on the floorboard. In the seat next to me, tugging her top down over the most perfect handful of tits I’ve ever seen, Riley Rivers smiles at me. After begging to please me and dropping down on her knees for me inthe rain and letting me cover her in my cum, she’s smiling at me. I start my truck and hit the road, excitement and lust brewing in my belly.

A snugness surfaces behind my ribs, so I push my shoulders back, trying to relax into the seat as I drive. “We just did that,” she says, redoing her ponytail. My eyes slide down her lap to her knees, dirty despite my best efforts. She follows my gaze and uses her palms to rid her knees of debris, her soulful blue eyes waiting on mine.

“I liked it,” she says, as if reading my mind full of concerns. Was I too rough? Was it too vulgar? Did we do too much? WasItoo much? I glance at her again after peering back at the empty road. “I really liked it. All of it,” she clarifies, and despite the fact I didn’t ask, I do want to know.

“My house is up here, on the left, you remember,” she says, motioning toward the vicinity of where I ought to be going. Town is still a solid five minutes from here, but if she thinks I could forget where she lives, she’s crazy.

“I wrote an article about safe sex and then I didn’t have any condoms,” she says aloud, her tone somewhere between harmless comment and soft laughter.

“If you have a condom on you somewhere while you were out running, that would be weird,” I tell her, finally cracking a partial smirk as she eyes me across the cab. I glance at her legs, bare and still damp, and notice the scattering of bumps. I twist the dial on the heater, and reach behind me to produce another shirt. I keep clean clothes in my truck all the time—not because I’m giving side of the road tit jobs often, but because of client fittings. Saddle fitting, leatherworking, and handling horses can be a smelly job, one that Jo Jo has told me many times she has zero interest in smelling while she’s trying to eat dinner. Thus, the spare clothes. I’m glad now that I have them as Riley slips into an overly big flannel, thedelicious swell of her breasts and hips now hidden behind green and black tartan.

“Yeah,” she sighs, tugging the end of her ponytail free from the collar of her shirt. “That’s true. A house key in my shoe would be okay but a condom would be very strange.” She twists in the seat to face me, one leg curled. “Why don’t you have any condoms on you? You’re single. You could have them in your wallet or glovebox.”

I glance at her but say nothing. She reaches for the glovebox, waiting for me to give her permission and I nod. It pops open with a small bang. We both survey the contents.

A tin of Altoids, which she pulls out and pops open. She holds it open to me and I can’t help but laugh.

“Really?A mint tin with a pocket knife and matches?” she laughs, sliding the rectangle container back into the glovebox. Next she pulls out a pair of gloves and a rechargeable flashlight.

I glance her way. “And if there would have been a box of condoms in there, how would you feel right now, hmm, Miss Riley? You’d be sittin’ there thinking you let me have my way with your body only to find out I’m active enough to need rubbers on the go.” I shake my head and she closes the glovebox with a sigh.

“You’re right. As much as I wished you’d had one,” she says, growing a little shy around her admission that just minutes ago, she was desperate to fuck me. “I’m also kind of glad you didn’t.”

Not wanting to look like a womanizing creep, while important to me, is not the reason why I don’t carry condoms on me. And for some inexplicable reason, I need her to know that.

“I don’t carry them because I don’t need them.” I lay it outbetween us, and take quick glances at her as I drive, waiting for the subtext to click.

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