“This is crazy,” he finally says, voice on the breathy side. The interest I detect in it makes me look up. “Don’t joke about this, Hay-gen. I haven’t had sex in seven months.”
I force myself to meet his gaze, and see something in its depths that quickens my own breath. “It seems wasteful to be at a make-out spot and not make out,” I manage to quip.
Keats studies me for a beat, smile broadening as a sceptical brow rises. “You mean it?”
I reach into the front seat for my handbag and grab a foil packet from the side pocket. I rest the condom between us, then lean towards him.
He crosses the distance between our mouths before I complete a nod. The contact with his lips goes straight to my belly. And all of a sudden we are all hands and lips as we bridge the gap between us. There’s enough space in the confined interior of the car to lie side by side but I want to get closer.
I somehow straddle his lap, kneeing him in the stomach and thighs in my haste. Once in place, Keats cups my butt, guiding me to grind against him. I have to duck my head to stop myself from hitting the low roof. The position has my breasts hovering inches above his face. He eyes them, lids hooded, his lips parted in anticipation.
For leverage, I brace myself against the side of the vehicle. It’s not the most comfortable place for two tall people to get busy—but I am not going to say anything that might break this spell.
“Hay-gen,” Keats groans out, thrusting his hips to rub against me more intimately.
“Call me Jess.”
A corner of his mouth quirks. “Yes, ma’am.”
I kiss his smile, running my lips along his jaw, down his neck. He smells so good I could bury my nose there, which I do while I plant soft kisses on his collar bone. Keats reaches up behind me and unzips my dress, grabbing its high neckline and peeling it down till my see-through lace bra is exposed. I clock his appreciative gaze on my nipples as his fingers trace the outline of my bra before he slides his hands beneath the fabric to cup my full breasts. He gently squeezes them together.
Oh, God. My eyes roll back, as a wave of sensation courses through me. He slips a breast out of my bra cup and lifts his head. He suckles me and I gasp, so close to coming just from his wet mouth on my nipple. I’ve never loved my big breasts more than now.
Mouth sucking me hard, Keats runs his fingers down my side till they reach my pantyhose. He tries to claw them down but, in this position, they won’t go lower than my upper thighs. With a growl muffled now by my other breast, he moves his hands to the apex between my legs, pulling at my stockings there, till I hear a rip. A second later, his fingers push aside my underwear, and then he’s touching me intimately through the wide hole he created on my nylons. His fingers slide easily against me and I shift so that he can slip them in.
My hands shake as I reach for his belt buckle and zip. It’s too damn tight to look down and see him. But the velvety skin is unmistakable as I wrap my fingers around him. Keats groans against my breasts. By feel, I roll on the condom, then go up on my knees as far as the low ceiling would allow, dying to have him deep inside me. Our eyes meet. He nods, and I lower myself around him in one slick slide.
“Oh, God, Jess.”
“Keats.” My hips move to repeat the action, impatient for the glorious sensation of him sliding into me again and again.
“We’ve gotta slow down. I am way too…” he says through gritted teeth.
I ignore him, rocking against him till he throws back his head, body tense, mouth parted. So sexy. I’m close, too. Just watching the effect I have on him has me wound so tight. I’m almost there, the tight coil of pleasure ready to break, but I need to know Keats is with me. That he’s thinking of me, that he’s aware of me when his body is shaking with pleasure in the next few thrusts.
“Look at me,” I rasp out.
Keats’ eyes flicker open, wide with surprise. I hold his gaze, the connection erotic as our bodies meld again and again below. His gaze turns molten as he begins to groan out my name like the syllable gives him pleasure. His hands grab my butt, sliding under till his fingertips tease where our bodies are joined. I buck against him and he gives my arse a tap.
I take that as my cue to rock against him. Faster. Harder. Deeper. Egged on by Keats strangled sounds of ecstasy. And then I’m crying out, shattering, contracting and screaming his name as Keats finds his own release.
I slump on top of him, a ball of nerves, arms and legs like jelly.
“That was…” Keats begins. Breathless, our hearts thud against each other where our chests are pressed together.
I nod against his neck.
“Jess, you’re—” But before he can finish his sentence, his mobile phone suddenly rings, buzzing against my right breast. He groans in annoyance. “Shit. Sorry.” He shifts in the confined space to reach the phone in his jacket pocket. “I better check who it is, in case it’s Mom.”
I disentangle myself from him but stay on his lap, his free hand on my hip, reassuring me I’m not too heavy for him. I better not be—my legs are straining to prop me up as much as possible to
