Page 55 of Mr. Picture Perfect
I move my hands from his hips to his ass, which I’m surprised to report is firmer and more bountiful than I previously thought. Is that the right word? “Bountiful”? Can a perfectly-proportioned plump butt be dignified with the word “bountiful”?
But it isn’t just the size or exquisite hand-filling shape of his tender cheeks that has me losing my mind.
It’s that when I squeeze, his cheeks flex back.
Then he grinds deeper against my crotch.
How is anyone supposed to maintain sanity with this amount of tension building up on this overcrowded driver’s seat?
“You don’t have to be so gentle with me,” breathes Noah into my ear.
He says this while I have my hands on his ass, squeezing like I expect to wring milk out of it. He says this while we grind our crotches together like we’re mining for diamonds.
“Noah …” I breathe.
Then his fingers curl even tighter in my hair, surprising me, as he dives back into my mouth. He humps me even harder now, working me like a piece of meat he’s tenderizing by beating it to its second death on a kitchen counter.
My grunts are turning vocal without my permission.
“N … N …Noah…”
He presses his next kiss against my cheek, then my jaw, then goes for my ear, where he takes a sudden nip. Tingles of ecstasy rocket down my neck from the feel of his teeth on my earlobe. I’m out of control with my moans as he drags his lips down the side of my neck, right where it’s tender, right where I have to fight an instinct to squirm against him. My whole entire body is sensitive. Charged. Activated. Moving.
Then something hits the stick shift. There’s no telling if it’s his arm or mine, but quite suddenly we’re not parked.
A foot hits the gas—his foot or mine?
And now it’s the car that’s charged, activated, and moving, as it roars, lurches forward, and slams into something before coming to a dead stop.
The pair of us look forward in alarm.
Noah’s mailbox teeters in front of us, as if waving hi.
Then it creaks.
And falls over with a sad littlethumpon the grass.
Neither of us move. Noah, with his body twisted around to get a look, holds his breath. Then he twists back around to look at me, his eyes wide and blinking frantically.
I push on the brakes. He climbs off of my lap with caution, then drops onto the passenger seat where he reclaims his glasses with two trembling hands. I reach to the side for the knob of the seat, crank it upright again, then carefully reverse my car off of the front of Noah’s lawn and put it into park. Again.
Without saying a word, we both get out to survey the damage.
Noah’s mailbox, bent at the base and lying flat on the ground.
My car, dented at the front.
Noah appears at my side, pushes at the bridge of his glasses, and in the tiniest of voices, says, “Oops.”
The next minute, we’re through the front door of his house, and his back is pressed to the wall of the dark entryway as we pick up right where we left off. My lips are all over his, and our breaths crash like thunder against our faces.
He takes hold of my shirt, fingers curling, and then I’m a doll dragged through the dark as we make out. My hip bumps against a piece of furniture—table, couch, armchair, I have no idea. His back hits a door before it shoves open, and the two of us spill inside.
My back falls against a bed, springy and soft. He straddles me again, but this time without the confines of a car around us.
It’s much more liberating.
His mouth descends onto mine as he grapples with my shirt. Our lips separate for only a second as the shirt is peeled over my head and pitched aside like trash.
