by A. S. Green
There’s a loud clanking sound, and the truck bounces on its shocks. The rocking motion makes my hips shift and my sex rub against the seat. Even that subtle bit of friction pulls a groan from my lips.
Keeping my eye on Mr. Sexy in my side mirror, I take the moment of privacy to hitch my skirt up a bit and circle my fingers over the ache, pressing in. God. So good.
I won’t have time to get myself all the way there, but it’s a start. As I watch Mr. Sexy’s body bend and flex, I work the bundle of nerves, stroking through my wetness, then back to my clit. With him in my sights, it doesn’t take long.
Everything draws tighter, higher, tenser. I close my eyes when I feel the rush of moisture. I’m so close...so close...a little bit farther... Oh, god...
I peek at the mirror again to check on Mr. Sexy and discover that he’s vanished from sight. Shit! Fuck! What the hell am I doing?
I quickly stop all activities. Have I lost my ever-loving mind? I don’t have time for self-indulgence, let alone public humiliation.
My poor neglected pussy vehemently disagrees and plans a one-woman revolt if I ever (Ever!) leave her hanging like that again.
I promise her a date tomorrow morning with her favorite vibrator, give the hem of my skirt a little tug, then grab my phone from my bag and make another call.
Chapter Three
Michael
Apparently a shapely ass in a tight skirt is the new chink in my armor. Helping Princess up into the cab put that ass right in my face—at least for a second—and that’s all it took. It’s not like me to be such a sucker for a woman, any woman, especially a fancy-pants woman like her.
She was probably brought up on designer jeans, golf lessons at the country club, and organic kale and shit. I don’t need an uppity prep-school bitch fucking with my head, but that’s exactly what she’s doing.
One whiff of her expensive perfume, one look at those got-me-a-gym-membership calves and those tiny, probably-took-ballet-lessons feet arched into a pair of teetering heels. Not to mention that cock-jerking skirt or the peek of creamy white mounds when the buttons on her silk blouse gapped open...
The truck’s boom is lowered, but I don’t immediately shift the controls to extend the underlift below her chassis. Instead, I take a moment to close my eyes and exhale.
I’m completely fucked until I can get rid of her, and that’s what I’ve got to do before my dirty thoughts slip past my lips. She’d probably slap me into next week. And then I think about how hot it would be if she did.
I extend the underlift but delay engaging her car. I figure, once I get my shit tight, I’ll be able to get into the cab and not be affected by her. Unfortunately, there’s just no chance of getting control of my cock because her voice is coming at me through my open window, and it’s just as intoxicating as the rest of her.
As I walk back to the cab, I pick out her words and not just her voice. It sounds like she’s talking to a girlfriend about some asshole named Steven.
It’s good she’s distracted. Maybe she won’t notice the huge erection I’m sporting. I wonder if it would be too obvious if I laid my jacket over my lap. I think it’s balled up behind my headrest.
When I climb into the cab and shift into gear, Princess turns her body toward the window to give her phone conversation a little more privacy. Her glossy, dark brown hair hangs halfway down her back.
I pretend not to pay her any attention, either. That is, until I inhale and my sensitive nose picks up the unmistakable, musky scent of feminine sex. I’ve always been keenly aware of even the subtlest indication of a woman’s arousal, but there’s nothing subtle about this.
It’s all I can do to subdue a groan. I glance over and find her skirt is hitched higher on her thigh than it had been before—as if she’d been taking care of some personal business in my absence. Oh, you naughty little Princess. What have you been up to?
Chapter Four
Claire
I cross my legs and squeeze my thighs because if Mr. Sexy was overwhelming standing outside my open door, now that we’re trapped—together—in the cab, his quintessentially male presence is more than my poor lonely pussy can handle.
For a second I’ve forgotten I have Janey on the phone. She’s my former assistant. She has a fantastic memory for names and faces. I’m hoping she’ll come up with a potential date for me because, at this point, I’ve gone through everyone I can think of.
“George Martin?” she asks, suggesting one of my colleagues.
“Uh-uh. He’s already going to the gala with his fiancée.” Too bad. George is pretty cute.
“George is engaged?” she asks, her voice going up an octave. “Oh, I’m so happy for him!”
“Janey. Focus.” I glance over at Mr. Sexy as we drive down the highway into south Minneapolis. His eyes are straight ahead, locked on the road. He doesn’t seem to give two shits about me, though his jaw is tight.
“Right,” she says. “Sorry. What about your cousin, Peter?”
“Steven knows Peter. I can’t ask him to be my date.”
Mr. Sexy engages his signal and we exit the highway heading for Thirty-Fifth Street. I check the side mirror to make sure my car is still hanging on back there, then I catch the faint reflection of Mr. Sexy’s strong profile in my window. Fuck, he’s good-looking.
“Jacob, the paralegal?” Janey asks. “You snapped me a photo of him on his first day, remember? You wanted me to rethink my decision to leave.”
“Jacob is sweet, but he’s a boy. I need a real man.”
Mr. Sexy’s reflection jerks to look at me, and I close my eyes. God, did I say that out loud? In front of him? It’s too mortifying for words.
“A real man,” Janey says before going quiet. I assume she’s running through her mental catalog of eligible men. “Aha! Tom Hay!”
“Not a geriatric man. Jesus Jones, Janey.”
Mr. Sexy chuckles, and I turn to narrow my eyes at him.
“Nice alliteration,” Janey says. “I assume you already went through all the contacts on your own phone?”
“Yes.”
“Tinder?”
“Be serious.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll think of someone. You worry about your car. I’ll work my magic.”
I hang up and hold my phone in both hands as if it’s a life raft.
Chapter Five
Michael
Princess hangs up with her girlfriend, but before I suggest what a “real man” I can be, her phone rings again. She doesn’t say hello but launches straight in.
“Steven, you need to stop calling me.”
Her tone makes my shoulders tense, like I need to throw my body in front her and take a bullet.
“Because I asked you to stop,” she says, “and that is reason enough.”
Who the fuck is this Steven? I don’t like the way he’s got her hackles up.
“What do you mean, you asked around?” Now she sounds pissed. Good for her. I’m feeling pissed on her behalf.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but despite your extensive research into my personal life, I do, in fact, have a date for the gala. Now leave me the hell alone.” She ends the call and throws her phone into her purse.
“Trouble?” I ask.
“No.” She crosses her arms.
“Who’s Steven?”
“My ex-husband.”
It takes me a second before I reason out the rest of the partial conversations I’ve been privy to. “And you’re trying to find a date for your fancy shindig because you want to make him jealous.”
“No!” Her whole body turns in my direction, swinging her dark brown hair over her shoulder. Her expression is horrified.
“You’re lying.” All women want us to be jealous. That’s their number one play.
“I am not lying. I don’t wa
nt him to feel anything for me. Not love, not attraction, not jealousy, but especially not pity.”
Pity? Who would pity this woman? She’s got to have all mankind by the balls. I want her to have me by the balls.
We pull into the shop. The front lobby is glass walls on three sides. Jimmy is behind the front desk. I pull past three bays, each with their garage doors closed, then park behind the building where there are no windows. I turn to face her.
“I’ll take you to your party, Princess.”
“You?” she asks, her eyebrows shooting toward her hairline.
I cock my head, questioning. I’m not used to being turned down, but then she’s not the type I usually ask out. “Something wrong with me?”
“No, but... No. It’s just that... I don’t know you.”
“That’s the definition of a first date.”
She stares at me, looking stunned and saying nothing.
“You know... A lot of women get off on the idea of slumming it.”
She rolls her lips inward and narrows her eyes, then she lifts her finger and points at me like she’s the sexy schoolmarm and she’s going to teach her naughty boy a lesson. Fuck, she’s hot.
“First of all, Mr. Sexy, whatever you’re used to, I’m not it. Second, don’t be so crude as to say ‘get off.’ Third, spending time with any human being is never slumming. That’s offensive.”
I don’t comment on her amusing nickname for me—I don’t think she meant to say it out loud—so instead, I address each of her points in turn. “First, I’m sure you’re right. Second, I am crude. That’s just the way it is. Third, I stand corrected on the whole slum thing.”
She gives one firm nod. “You should have a much higher opinion of yourself.”
This draws another low chuckle out of me. “Oh, Princess, don’t worry. I do. Ask anyone in the shop. All good guys. Good friends. But every one of them will tell you, I’m the most arrogant asshole they’ve ever met. I was just working an angle I thought might get me in there.”
“In there?” she asks. Her voice, originally irritated has dropped to something low and curious. Her neck is pinking up, and her eyes drop to my mouth. It doesn’t take a genius to pick up on her signals. I slide across the seat, closing the gap between us.
“Yeah. I want in there, and I’ll let you in on something else.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“You can quit acting like a prude. I know your uppity reaction to ‘getting off’ is just for show.”
She raises one eyebrow and then—suddenly—both when realization hits. Yeah, honey. I know what you were up to when I left you alone.
She inhales sharply, then I watch the wheels turn as she figures she can convince me I imagined the whole thing. “Oh, is that so?”
“Yeah. That’s so.” My gaze drops to her mouth. She licks her bottom lip, and my cock jumps as it strains behind my zipper.
“And are you always such an expert on complete strangers’ sensibilities?”
I drop my head and fight back a smile at her princess-talk.
“You’re a shameless flirt,” she says.
My head jerks up, and I set the record straight. “I have no shame, but I don’t flirt.”
“You don’t?”
“Boys flirt.”
She blinks those thick, dark lashes as my meaning sinks in. She said she didn’t want a boy. She needed a real man. Men didn’t come any more real than me. I hope she gives me the chance to prove it.
“If you’re not flirting, then what exactly are you doing?” she asks.
She’s leaning into me, and I accept the offer. Slowly I raise my hand and draw a lock of her long, glossy hair behind her ear. “Testing your boundaries.”
Her voice drops low. “I’m not getting the sense you’re good with boundaries.”
My fingers had been stroking against her skull. Now they stop. “You want me to be?”
There’s a look of panic in her eyes. Then she says, “God, no!” and launches herself at me.
Chapter Six
Claire
Who knew I could be so impulsive? Who knew I could get my skirt yanked up so high, so fast, that one second I could be trying to cool my jets, and the next second I could be straddling Mr. Sexy Michael DaBruzzi of DaBruzzi Towing and Repairs, in his truck, behind his garage?
He doesn’t seem half as surprised as I am. It’s like he knew I had this in me all along.
His mouth plunders mine, tasting me, exploring me. My hands paw at his body. I get some of the buttons undone on his shirt and I slip my hands inside, feeling the warmth of his skin, the hard lines of his chest.
It feels so good to touch a man again, and I want his hands on me, too.
His lips and tongue slide to my jaw, then move down my throat. I tip my head back, giving him more access as his hands gingerly work the buttons on my blouse. Next thing I know, he’s moving over my lace bra and sucking my nipple into his mouth.
“Touch me,” I tell him.
His breath is warm against my skin when he says, “I am touching you, Princess.”
“With your hands.”
He pulls his head back and grins at me. “My hands are a little dirty at the moment. I’m trying hard not to get grime on your clothes. Touch yourself. I’ll watch.”
“What?”
“Like you were doing before.”
I hesitate. He can’t really mean that.
“Do it, Princess.”
He stretches out his arms, lacing his hands behind my shoulder blades and locking his fingers tight. I lean back in his strong arms like they’re a hammock.
When I wiggle my skirt higher, he looks down at the juncture between my legs. I know what he’s seeing when he lets out a low groan. I’m drenched, and it’s soaked right through the thin bit of white silk and lace.
I keep my eyes on his face. He keeps his eyes on my pussy as I pull the gusset to the side. I drag a finger through my wetness again, drawing it up under my hood and circling my clit.
“How does that feel?” His voice is low and gravelly.
“Wet,” I tell him, which is something he already knows.
“More.”
“Smooth. Swollen. Tight.”
He lets out a strangled sound of legitimate pain. I can feel his hands squeezing together behind my back, like he’s struggling for self-control.
“Keep at it. Work yourself up. I want to watch the juices flow out of you.”
I’m not used to this kind of dirty talk, but it makes me crazy with desire. My fingers work in tight, quick circles over my clit, and I get wetter by the second.
“Fuck yourself,” he says. “Do it.”
I drive a finger inside, right up to the base. His hips rise under me, and I watch as his erection pushes out over the top of his grease-stained pants. The dark purple crest lights something up inside of me, and my finger moves in and out at lightning speed until I can feel everything drawing up tighter and tighter.
I don’t want to come so fast. I’m not ready for this to be over. Acting on inspiration, I use my free hand to stroke my thumb over the head of his cock. His eyes slam shut and his head kicks back. While his eyes are still closed, I raise my other hand and draw my wet finger over his parted lips.
He quickly sucks my finger into his mouth, groaning in response. “God, I knew you’d taste good. Thank you for that, Princess. Now finish.”
I nod, and touch my finger back to my nub, while he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, not wasting a drop of me. That little act is all it takes. I lift my hips and close my eyes, working my clit toward its triumphant conclusion.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god...”
“That’s it, Princess. Show me.”
Everything contracts. Air catches in my throat, and I stop breathing. My walls constrict, holding s
till at the precarious point of indecision before surrendering to the riotous pulsing. Pulsing. Hard jerks contract and release, making tears roll slowly, gently down my cheeks.
“Beautiful,” he says, as if he’s in awe of what he just witnessed. “So fucking beautiful.”
I can’t move as the final tremors run through me. I’m afraid his arms must be getting tired of supporting me like this, but I don’t think I have the strength to get out of his lap.
He chuckles and pulls me against his chest. My head collapses onto his shoulder, and he kisses my cheek.
“Are you going to let me take you to your party, Cinderella?”
I nod, dazed and sated, against his shoulder.
“Good girl.”
“Do you own a tux?” I murmur.
I feel his chest expand against mine. “No tux, babe.”
“A dark suit?” I slowly push myself upright and shift off his lap to sit beside him again.
“Got the one I wore to my father’s funeral.”
A tingling sadness wraps over my shoulders, and I reach out to rest my hand on his thigh. “Oh, Michael. I’m so sorry.”
He inhales sharply when I say his name, but his eyes soften. “Me, too, Princess. Will a dark suit do?”
“That’ll be perfect. So... I assume you know where the Wellington is? I can meet you there at seven.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You want me to meet you there? After I just watched you fuck yourself in my lap?”
“Well, I—”
He shakes his head. “You won’t have a working car for a while, even if we do have the parts in stock.”
“Oh, yeah.” I glance around, remembering where we are. I think I might have lost some brain cells that time around. “I forgot.”
He chuckles and starts to button up his shirt, hiding away all that goodness. “I’ll pick you up at your house.”
“I live at—”
“I can get your address from Jimmy at the front desk. Check in with him. Have him call you a cab, too, so you can get home.”
“You’re not going to take me home?”