He snorted, but I ignored him and took shots from different angles. I would cut this footage together with some shots of my outfit, and post it as, like, an athlete’s girlfriend, passenger princess thing.
It was almost the truth. No one needed to know that I’d humiliated myself trying to cheer for him, then gotten horny because he punched a guy in the face on my behalf.
“Thanks!” I said, too brightly. “That’s it!”
“That’s all you need?” Mike asked.
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
We were still ten minutes from home. I didn’t know what made me say it. Other than being frustrated and wound up and a little bit obsessed with this man.
“Unless you want to stroke your hand up my leg, then yes. We’re done.”
Without hesitation, Mike reached over and put his hand on my leg.
Just like that. No prevarication, no wasted time double-checking consent. I asked and he did it.
It was difficult to breathe all of a sudden.
“How’s that?” Mike asked, his voice gravelly.
I nodded, then realized he wouldn’t see that because he was very determinedly concentrating on the road. There was no other traffic, but his stare was fixed, and his right hand was tight on the wheel.
The left hand, however—the left was all mine.
I swallowed. “You can stroke my leg a bit. If you want to.”
He made a noise like this was a hilarious joke, but I kept filming, and then his big, warm, craggy hand ran along the bare skin of my thigh.
“Higher,” I whispered.
He obliged. He slid his hand up under my cheerleader skirt, and his fingertips grazed my panties. I let out a completely involuntary little whimper and lifted my hips.
This seemed to be his breaking point.
With a quick check over his shoulder—for cyclists or cows? Could have been either—Mike pulled over on the side of the road and threw his hazard lights on.
“What the fuck, Lyssa?” he demanded. He sounded angry, but it took me a few blinks to process that, because he still hadn’t moved his left hand. It was under my skirt, his thick fingers pressed up against my panties, where things were feeling decidedly hot and wet.
I opened and shut my mouth a few times, but my hips had a mind of their own, giving a little jerk. My eyes stayed locked on his, trying to understand what I was seeing there. Mike was an intense personality, who draped a layer of affable charm and good-natured enthusiasm over his hotheadedness. But there was nothing affable about his stare now. It was scorching.
“Turn the camera off.”
Camera?
Oh yeah, my phone was somewhere. I’d dropped it down the side of my seat. I reached for it, and my breasts pressed along the thick cord of Mike’s forearm.
“Never fucking mind,” he growled.
Mike unbuckled his seat belt and leaned over the console. He had to remove his left hand, which made me whine in protest, but it hardly mattered, because then his right one was there, and the angle was so much better. I spread my thighs as wide as I could with my seat belt still on, and Mike, wonderful, intense Mike, cupped my pussy and breathed heavily into my neck. With his other hand braced on the headrest, he kissed the skin on my neck, and I whined again, lifting my hips in a silent plea for more—more touching, more contact, more rubbing. More.
“Stay still,” he growled into my neck.
But I didn’t listen, because I wanted more of his cragginess up and around my softness. Ideally, in.
“Jesus, have fucking mercy,” Mike grumbled, but I don’t think he was talking to me. His dexterous fingers played over the fabric, and then he touched a spot that made me keen.
