Where It Ends

| After 2 | Fifteen Hours Later

Grady suddenly stirs beside me. I wipe the tear away before he sees it.

In the passenger seat, trying to sleep, he can't be that comfortable. He's a big guy. Maybe not enough to turn your head for that alone. The same could be said about his good looks. They're subtle at first glance, but he doesn't lose points anywhere. He only makes gains. Big gets bigger when you see his smile and realize that charm and good humor prevail, despite what he's been through. And, damn, when he takes his shirt off? I get all flushed and brainless. He's definitely been taking better care of himself and trying harder in his twenties, and he was always a cut above the rest, even when he was undernourished.

I know it's not ladylike. I shouldn't bed a man and tell, but the penis is . . . certainly not something I should have seen at the delicate age which I had. Once you see it, you can't unsee it. The length was always there, and it's broadened with maturity. With that as my frame of reference, what hope did I ever have of being content with someone else? 

Despite all that and then some, Grady manages to fall asleep in the car and sleep soundly for a few hours at a time. I envy that. Work won't be pleasant for him in the morning, but I have no doubt he'll get by without a hitch. Unless catastrophe strikes . . . again . . . there's no cause for concern.

He rolls toward me and sets a hand in my lap, which I take in mine. "How many more hours do you think?"

"About three?" Even in the near-dark, I can't miss the bulge in his jeans. "We might get you a few hours at home before you have to get up again."

He's not hard, but it doesn't matter. I'm not sure how he can sleep, walk, or even think with his manhood in the way all the time.

He groans and closes his eyes again. "A real bed. What will that feel like?"

I squeeze his hand while really good pops into mind. I can't hold back the smirk, which he doesn't even know to look for. It was a rhetorical question, and he's probably too tired to talk dirty. I'm not quite tired enough to prevent myself from thinking it, though.

It's been about forty-eight hours since our first and only time. And yes, I'm still sore. I know that's not that long, and I should give myself plenty of time to heal. But I won't. . .

I can't speak for Grady, but for me, considering the years of longing and what we've been through, I've been chomping at the bit this whole ride. I've never done drugs and I'm not much of a drinker. For better or (sometimes a lot) worse, sex has been my drug of choice. When I feel particularly down and out, the cravings get out of control. And right now, I'm a fucking mess and the hankering is all the more intense knowing that Grady would be my partner. Finally. He'd be a much better high with few, if any, side effects. Assuming heartbreak is off the table, it'd be nothing I couldn't handle. The arousal will get me through it, and get me there quickly, like it did the first time.

And I need to forget. At least for a little while. I'm not sure I can bottle this up for much longer. The pressure is unbearable, and he might be the only release valve. A tear every now and then just isn't cutting it.

I've thought about pulling over. I'd like to think he'd be into it no matter what time of day it was. But I'm trying to do what's best for him. If I intend to get him in a real bed for any length of time, we can't tinker around. I don't want to get him into any trouble, either. The road is dead and pitch black, but if anyone were to come by, we'd stand out too much, especially if the truck is rocking. Odds are, it'd be another cop and a difficult conversation would ensue. Worth it to me, but maybe not to him. He has a career to consider. I just have a diploma and expectations that are probably too high despite my efforts to avoid that. All that and yes, it's possible we're being chased. Unlike Quinn, they would know where Grady is heading.