Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  I wiggle my eyebrows as I pinch the tip of the condom. Her eyes drift down to my dick. They widen. “Oh God,” she murmurs as she stares at my cock.

  “Like what you see?”

  “That’s a lot of inches.”

  “How many?” I shake my head and put my finger against her lip. “Don’t guess. I want you to feel how many. Then see how fucking long it takes you to come again.”

  “You ass,” she says sharply, as she grabs my cock and draws me to that sweet Promised Land.

  “I’m glad you hate me so much,” I say as I rub the head against her slippery entrance.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’ll be that much better when you say my name again when you come for the second time.”

  She sneers as I sink into her, and then there’s no more sneering, from her or me. Because holy fuck.

  I still myself when I’m all the way inside her. “Jesus,” I mutter. “You feel so fucking good.”

  “So do you,” she says softly.

  She’s out of this world. She’s warm and tight and her pussy fucking welcomes me. She’s so goddamn aroused already that I have no problem filling her all the way.

  She grips my shoulders, holding on as she rocks her pelvis up on my cock. “I bet you come first,” she says, in a challenging dare. “I already came.”

  I grab her chin as I ease back out. “And you fucking will again,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “I doubt it. The first was a fluke. It’s been a long time, like I said.”

  I grab her thighs, yank her closer, and punch my hips into her.

  “Oh God,” she gasps.

  “That’s right, tiger. You’re too fucking wet to only come once.”

  I drive into her again, and a sharp intake of air is her response.

  “What made you so wet, tiger?” I ask, riling her up.

  She shuts her eyes and bites her lip.

  I slide back out, inch by inch, so just the tip is in her. “What got you so turned on?”

  “Max,” she moans, like a protest.

  “Was it the way I ate you out and made you come in less than two minutes?”

  I rock back into her, filling her to the hilt and letting a jolt of heat rocket over my skin. “Oh wait,” I say, whispering roughly in her ear. “Was it how I kissed you before I even took your clothes off? Was that what made you so fucking turned on you came in seconds?”

  Her eyelids flutter closed.

  I grab her hips and angle her up more so my cock slides against her clit as I fuck her with long, deep strokes that seem to drive her wild. She can’t answer me. She only moans and groans.

  “Tell me, Henley. What made you so wet?” I drop my hand between her legs and rub her clit.

  She lets out the longest, sexiest sound. “Oh God . . .”

  I slide out so I’m barely in her at all, and she shakes. “Say it. Say it was the way I kissed you,” I command as I rub circles over her clit. A tremble spreads over her body, and watching it overtake her from her chest down to her belly is breathtaking. She’s beautiful and sexy, and trying so hard not to give in to everything she feels. I swivel my hips and pound into her.

  “Your mouth,” she shouts at last. “Oh God. It was your mouth. It’s the way you kissed me. It’s how I want to be kissed.”

  She throws her head back, exposing her beautiful neck. I smother her skin in kisses as I fuck her hard, rub her clit, and bring her to the brink.

  Her eyelids squeeze. “Oh God, Max. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

  She’s close again. She’s chasing pleasure. And I want her to catch it. I really fucking do. But I want her admission, too.

  I freeze with my cock buried deep inside her. “Say how much you want me,” I tell her, my voice rough and husky.

  She whimpers.

  “Say it and I’ll make you come so fucking hard. I promise.”

  She cries out in frustration, her fists smacking my chest.

  “Open your eyes,” I tell her, and she does.

  I stare into those brown irises. “Say you want me . . . because I fucking want you so much.”

  Something in her bursts free. She loops her hands around my neck. “I want you. I want you so much,” she shouts, and then I give it to her, fucking her through her next orgasm as she cries out in bliss.

  She’s limp, fucked within an inch of her life, but I’m not done.

  I tug her off the car, pull out, and spin her around. “Hands on the hood, tiger,” I say, and she listens, flattening her back and spreading her palms across all that yellow metal. She lays her cheek on the Challenger and looks back at me with dazed, lust-filled eyes. I run a hand down her one bare cheek, then I shove into her hot, tight pussy once more.

  And then we fuck it out.

  All this anger.

  All this frustration.

  All this almost . . . hate.

  I fuck her until she screams my name again. As she comes, I grip her hair and yank it hard.

  There’s nothing left but white-hot desire. I’ve never felt it like this before. Not for this long. Not with this kind of intensity. I pump into her, gripping her hips, until it’s my turn.

  I groan as an orgasm barrels down my spine, speeds through my body, and seizes me. It takes over, and it’s a thousand times better than the solo one against the door. Hell, it’s a million times better than I imagined.

  Then it’s more, when I collapse on her and she turns her face to mine and dusts my cheek with a soft, tender kiss. I’m still groaning in pleasure, but I manage a smile, too.

  I gently flip her over, pull her up against my bare chest, and give her a soft kiss on her lovely, swollen lips.

  “Mmm.”

  Then I whisper in her ear, “Knew I could make you come more than twice.”

  “That’s because your dick is eight and a half inches.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “It’s not the size that does it.”

  “Then what is it?”

  I’m about to tell her it’s how much I want her, it’s chemistry, it’s this sizzling connection between us. But a bell dings.

  Shit.

  We both scramble, and Henley yanks up her panties and jean leg. I pull off the condom and ball it up in the wrapper and stuff it in my pocket. I’ll throw it out later. The soles of heavy shoes pound through the entryway office. I grab my shirt and tug it on. As Henley adjusts her shirt and stuffs her foot into her boot, she shoots me a who the hell is here look.

  “Probably one of the guys,” I say, my heart beating faster.

  “Hey, boss.”

  It’s Sam. A curious look spreads on his face as he takes in the scene—the tangled mess of her hair, the bee-stung lips, the wet spot on my shirt.

  Pride surges in me, yet so does another feeling.

  Hypocrisy.

  I told Sam to watch what he said to the mechanic at John Smith. And here I am, fucking the lead builder on the hood of a car Sam’s working on after hours.

  “We’re just working on the . . .” I point to the Lambo.

  “I need to go. I have a . . . I have a thing,” Henley says, and then nods at my guy. “Hey, Sam. Good luck with the Challenger.”

  She grabs her purse from the chair and hightails it out of here.

  As I catch the parting glimpse of her with that big bag on her shoulder, I remember the change of clothes in it. And as I help Sam with the engine on the Challenger, all I can think about is what her thing could be.

  27

  “I can take it from here,” Sam says, a few hours later. “But thanks for staying late to help me.”

  “No problem.” I grab a rag and wipe my dirty hands.

  Sam needed a little help on this beast, and that’s my job—to show him how to make an engine sing, not fuck a girl on the hood of the car he’s restoring. Perhaps staying late is my penance for my hypocrisy.

  “So.” Sam clears his throat as he works on degreeing the cam. “You and Henley—”

  I jerk my head, nerves pr
ickling the back of my neck as I cut him off. “What do you mean?”

  He didn’t breathe a word about the two of us all evening, and it’s not his place to either. Even so, I can’t help but feel I crossed lines tonight when I decided to sleep with the rival.

  Sam cranes his neck to look up from the engine at me. “Whoa. I was just going to say I didn’t realize you and Henley used to work together.”

  I release a tight breath as I set down the rag. Momentary relief floods me. The question he’s asked is simple. “Yeah, she was my apprentice five years ago.”

  “Karen mentioned it when we went out a second time.”

  “Karen the mechanic at John Smith? I met her briefly the other week when I stopped by.”

  Sam nods as he takes a reading from the dial indicator. “She likes Henley. She says she’s a great builder. Karen loves having another chick there, and she said that all the guys over there have a lot of respect for her. They think she’s doing a great job at the shop. I just hadn’t realized you two had some history, and now you’re working together on the show car. That’s how tight this business is.” He laughs. “Small world, huh?”

  I force out a chuckle that sounds as if it’s strangling me. “Yeah, it sure is.”

  I feel like an ass for telling Sam to watch his back on his date. Meanwhile, I torched my own advice to ashes a few hours ago. I’m not sure what to say next, but I decide to start with being less of an asshole boss about his personal life. “So, you and Karen are getting along?” I ask, and it feels like eating chalk. I do not enjoy talking about extracurriculars with my employees. Their private lives should be private. But, I started the discussion, so I need to finish it with a proper reset, not another warning on who to date.

  “We’re going to keep seeing each other. It’s not like we’re going to pool our resources and get one of those ten-thousand-dollar Snap-on Mammoth tool sets and open a shop together. But she’s cool.”

  I laugh and gesture to the five-foot-high tool set I’ve got that contains everything under the sun that a professional builder needs. “A 10K Snap-on tool set is absolutely the sign of true love.”

  Sam taps his temple with his free hand. “I’ll keep that tidbit up here in case someone ever gives me one.”

  “I’m glad to hear it’s going well with her.” I walk closer to the engine, and it’s then that I see he’s about to make an error.

  “Hold on.” I shift gears from after-hours affairs to the engine as I explain what he’s doing wrong.

  His face is crestfallen. “Oh shit.”

  I clap his back. “No worries, man. That’s what I’m here for. Let’s get this right.”

  I’m patient as I walk him through the next steps in degreeing the cam. It’s painstaking work, and calls for incredible precision, but Sam listens and takes direction well. Soon enough, we’ve got the issue tackled.

  He holds up a fist for knocking. “Man, am I glad you didn’t leave right away.”

  I knock back. “You know you should never hesitate to ask me anything, right? Whatever you need help with. That’s my job,” I say, and this is way easier than who’s dating who at the competition. I take some solace that I’m still good at teaching my guys.

  He nods, an earnest look in his blue eyes. “I do. I appreciate it.” Then he winks. “By the way, you do know this car is a dude, right?”

  I laugh. “And does he have a name?”

  “Of course. I’m going to call him Kyle the Sex Machine.”

  “That’s an awful name for a car.”

  He laughs. “I know. But I named it that because I want to hear Mike say it.”

  “Now that you mention it, so do I.”

  When I return to my apartment, I pour a Scotch and work my way around the table for a solo round of pool. As I sink the balls, I think back on this evening. I managed Sam like a pro, segueing from work to his personal life. I should be able to manage a one-night stand with the same sort of ease and insight.

  Nothing ruffles me. Nothing throws me off. Not work. Not cars. Not women.

  But as I roll my neck from side to side, I’m not feeling so unruffled. I’m not experiencing the cool, blasé attitude I’d like to possess after an evening of delivering multiple Os to a woman I’ve wanted.

  Instead, I’m wired and wound up. I pull on basketball shorts and a T-shirt and head downstairs to the gym in my building, where I run on the treadmill for five miles, trying to shed this antsy, unsettled sensation in my gut.

  The exercise wears me out, and after a hot shower, I get into bed. Stupidly, I check my phone.

  That’s when it clicks—why I’m out of sorts. I drag a hand through my hair. “Dipshit,” I mutter. I’m waiting to hear from her. Like a fucking teenager. A moony, mopey teenager.

  For better or worse, I’m not the kind of man to sit around and wait for a chick. I’m a man of action. I open my contacts, find her number, and send her a text.

  * * *

  Max: Since you still don’t like coffee, what do you like to drink?

  * * *

  The tension in me unwinds somewhat. I draw in a long breath, feeling it spread through my tight muscles, willing it to relax me. I close my eyes, ready to drift off, when my phone blips. I grab it from the covers in world-record time. I’ll need to let Guinness know later what I’ve accomplished in the Over Eager Dude category.

  * * *

  Henley: Hot chocolate is my style.

  * * *

  In the dark of my bedroom, with the moonlight slicing soft rays over the covers, a smile spreads on my face. A flash of images pops before my eyes. Her unicorn and rainbow shirt. Her pink sparkly sunglasses. Her affection for bubble-gum music. The take-no-prisoners, keep-up-with-the-guys, do-a-man’s-work woman has such a girlie side.

  It’s fucking adorable.

  * * *

  Max: Yeah, that sounds just like you.

  * * *

  But that’s not quite enough to say to a woman you devoured on a car hours earlier.

  * * *

  Max: Also, your drink preferences are duly noted. And I hope your thing went well.

  * * *

  Henley: My thing went great. Glad to hear you’ve made the proper beverage notations. Ideally, gourmet hot chocolate.

  * * *

  My fingers hover over the phone, and I contemplate typing out one more text. Something witty. Something flirty. Something to let her know she’s not just on my mind; she’s the epicenter of it.

  But the only thing I want to say right now is the hard truth.

  I’m dying to know what your thing is. I want you to tell me what you do after work. I want to know your thing isn’t the thing we did on the car. I toss the phone to the other side of the bed. If I say that, it’ll be patently obvious I want more than one night with her.

  And that would be very bad for business.

  28

  Henley’s To-Do List

  * * *

  —Sign off on the paperwork! Yay, this is going to happen.

  * * *

  —Finish install of crankshaft with Max.

  * * *

  —Resist urge to make dirty crankshaft joke.

  * * *

  —Double resist urge.

  * * *

  —Refrain from jumping Max on the hood of the Miura, even though, oh my God, how hot would car sex with him be on that gorgeous car? Only to be topped by Maclaren sex. Or maybe DeLorean sex. Or wait . . . Aston Martin sex.

  * * *

  —Fan self at image of Aston Martin sex.

  29

  My lunch meeting with a new client runs late. The banker with the Hermes tie and tailored suit wants to discuss upgrades to his Bugatti. He already has a top-of-the-line model. I’m not sure what else he could want on it but a diamond-encrusted wheel. Nor do I find out with any sort of speed, since he takes a call after his steak arrives and barks orders at someone on the phone for fifteen minutes. I’m about ready to walk on account of the guy acting like a douchebag, but I dec
ide to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could be having a shitty day.

  During the fifteenth minute, I text Henley. I tell her I’m running late and to start without me on the final crankshaft work. When the guy stabs a meaty finger on the end button, his cuff rides up, revealing a Casio watch rather than a Rolex. For a guy who likes to show off his bling, the wrist adornment choice surprises me. But I bet he managed some sort of transaction involving that company. He’s probably meeting them next. He signals the waiter and orders another porterhouse. His has gone cold.

  When the waiter leaves, he returns his focus to the car conversation. “Where were we?” he asks as I take a drink of my iced tea.

  “You wanted diamonds on the steering wheel?” I joke.

  He laughs and runs a hand down his pink silk tie. “No, but tell me what else we can do to make it even better.”

  Nothing. Fucking nothing. You already have the best.

  Some people have a bottomless appetite though, so I try to come up with some options he might enjoy when he takes the car for a spin outside Manhattan. He tells me he’ll think about it. When the check comes, I pay, and when the lunch ends, he doesn’t say thank you. As he stalks off into the afternoon crowds, braying into his phone once again, I mouth, “You’re welcome, dickhead. Feel free to never call me again.”

  What a waste of two hours. I pick up the pace as I make my way back to my shop, hoping to catch Henley for a few minutes. I find a message from her.

  * * *

  Henley: I already finished. Do I get a gold star for punctuality?

  * * *

  Max: Sounds like you earned one for speed.