Midnight Mass (Camren)

CHAPTER 4

The drive to Newport was brutal. Sleet and intermittent snow turned I-95 into a miserable crawl of traffic, a slow-moving river of honking and merging and near-accidents. After Stamford, it opened up a little, but not a lot, and Camila fell asleep listening to my audiobook about ancient Greek mythology. So I navigated through the drizzle and stroked her thigh as she snored softly and the narrator droned on about the fucked up familial politics of the Olympians.

Around Westerly, she roused, her hair adorably mussed and her large hazel eyes blinking away sleep. Yawning, she looked out the window. I didn't need to tell her we were almost here; she knew this part of New England as intimately as I knew the neighborhoods and fountains of Kansas City. I flipped the stereo from my audiobook to the Bluetooth audio. Blues rock, loud and raw and lo-fi, started pounding through the speakers.

"This should help you wake up, sleepyhead," I said, steering my truck onto US-1.

I couldn't see her smile, but I could feel it as she stretched in her seat. "Well, someone kept me awake last night."

She was talking about me, and the fact that I'd fucked her until the day finally dawned gray and wet outside our window. But for a minute—an instant really—I thought someone meant Anton, and white-hot anger pricked at my chest.

I swallowed it down. "We should be to your parents' in about an hour."

She nodded, reaching over to squeeze my thigh. I swore I could feel her every finger through my jeans, I swore I could feel the heat of her palm searing marks onto my skin. And with my jealousy beating its restless rhythm inside my chest, it only served to make me agitated in a very particular sort of way.

I glanced over at her, at her perfectly applied lipstick and sparkling eyes, and then said, "Unzip me."

She licked those flawless crimson lips and complied, her hands pale in the fading light as she unbuckled herself and reached for me.

I leaned back, giving her better access to my zipper and also so I could get the view I wanted: those manicured hands on my jeans and then parting the fly and taking hold of me. There's something incredibly hot about driving fast with a woman unzipping your pants, something powerful about having your foot heavy on the gas and your vehicle eating up the road and a beautiful face about to be buried in your lap.

She stroked me once or twice, but I didn't need it, not with her lipstick and my restless jealousy and the engine thrumming around us as I pushed the truck faster and faster. And then she gave me one of her painfully gorgeous grins, leaning down to kiss my tip, her tongue darting out to tease me.

I should have let her take her time, I should have savored each and every one of her warm breaths as she pressed those lips everywhere, from my base to my crown, but when I looked down, I saw the red lipstick marks on my cock and I couldn't hold on to my self-control, threading my hands through her hair and pushing her head down. Her lips parted and her mouth was so fucking warm, and there was suction and heat and the fluttering of that wicked tongue...

"Shit," I swore as my dick hit the back of her throat. "Holy shit."

She moaned in response, the vibration going straight to my balls, and I dug my fingers deeper in her hair as I pressed harder on the gas, thankful for the lack of traffic but also wishing that this was more public, more exposed.

"On your knees," I said. "I want to touch your ass."

She did as she was told, easing up onto her knees, never breaking in her attention to my dick, and I was able to move my hand from her hair to her ass cheeks, rucking up the skirt of her expensive dress to reveal her expensive underwear. I gave her a small spank and then squeezed. God, I loved the feel of her ass in my hand. It was so soft and firm and just so damn juicy, the kind of ass you could play with for hours and never get bored. And the way it segued into her firm, dancer's thighs, the way it led to her warm, lace-covered folds...