Car Fun

When Skin came to stay with me in LA, I took her for long drives to show her what the city was really about—sun on the dash, windows down, the slow crawl up Mulholland while the valley glittered below. After enough nights in the backseat, enough teasing touches across the console, she pulled me into the car with James Deen one afternoon and turned those drives into something else entirely. Leather stuck to skin. The windows fogged. She braced her hands on the roof, knees spread over the gearshift, while James worked her open from behind and I watched her mouth drop open, her breath fogging the glass every time he thrust. Every jerk of the car made her gasp louder, and somewhere between the third orgasm and a cracked window she laughed, that low, wicked sound, before pulling me in to taste herself on my tongue.