Never Been Worse (Evergreen Park #3)

Chapter 21 – Harper

TWENTY-ONE

HARPER

Wes’s hand goes to my thigh once we’re in the car, and it burns there for the first five minutes of the too-long twenty-minute drive back to his house. I've never wanted to take him up on any of the offers of various luxuries, but tonight, I wish we’d have taken a town car or something where we could roll up the divider.

I’d be on my knees before him, his cock in my mouth, finally knowing what he feels like, what he tastes like. Or maybe I’d have just shifted my panties to the side and straddled him, letting him slide in deep.

My body shifts at the idea, uncomfortable and turned on and needing…something.

Anything.

“Are you okay, little wife?” Wes asks. “You seem a little fidgety.”

“I’d be a lot better if we’d gotten a hotel room,” I mumble under my breath, boldness fueled by nothing but lust and desire. I didn’t drink at Willa’s after-party, wanting to be completely present and not give Wes even the smallest excuse to put off tonight.

Now I’m regretting it, wondering if a drink would have taken the edge off. His hand moves, sliding inward but not up, gripping and gently pulling so my legs are forced to open a bit. My breath hitches, my breathing racing a bit more.

“And why is that?” he asks.

“Because then you could be inside me by now.” A low groan leaves his lips, making me lick mine. Despite the dark of the car, I’m able to see the planes of his face, the look of near pain as he drives.

“Would I now? That’s quite the assumption,” he says, but as he does, his finger slides up gently. He moves so slowly, if I weren’t so in tune with every twitch, I might not notice it. I widen my legs to give him room in response.

“Call it female intuition,” I say, then sigh as his pinky finger grazes along the front of my underwear. “Wes.”

“Hmm?”

“How far are we from home?” I ask, even though it’s displayed on the navigation of the car. We still have at least fifteen minutes left.

“Too long,” he says, finally dropping a bit of the facade. His fingers glide up along the line of my hip before tucking under and moving along the lacy seam of my panties. “Too fucking long,” he repeats as his fingers move down closer to where I need him most, want him most.

Something takes over me then, all common sense and restraint fly out the window, and I lean back and further widen my legs. “I want you, Wes,” I whisper, and those words pull a deep groan from my husband’s lips. It’s a relief knowing he’s as keyed up as I am, knowing he’s aching like me.

“What do you want, baby?” The baby shoots through me, pushing my need higher. I might even like it better than little wife .

“I want you to touch me,” I whisper, any shred of shyness or propriety long gone.

“Where?”

“My clit. My pussy. I don’t care, Wes. I just need your hands on me,” I moan, hips shifting to try and get more, to get him closer, to get anything . Instead, his fingers continue to graze the seam of my pussy over my underwear, quickly dampening with my need.

“Show me,” he says low and sultry.

“Show you?” I ask, confused.

“Guide me. Let me feel what you want.” My breathing goes heavy at the idea of that, as my mind creates a movie from his suggestion, but he must take my silence as not understanding. “Take my hand and show me what you want, Harper. Now.”

I groan aloud at his demand and the firmness of his words. It turns out I might like Wes Holden bossing me around.

A lot.

I do as he asks, moving my hand to hover over his, so much bigger than mine, then shifting the very tips of our fingers upward before dipping beneath the line of my panties. His middle finger grazes over my sensitive clit, and my hips shift up. The finger hovering over his presses down to get more pressure where I desperately need it, and a low, long moan leaves my lips.

“That’s it, baby. Take what you need,” he says in a strained voice.

I use my hand to guide the rough pad of his thumb to circle my clit, and heat explodes through me, my head tipping against the back of the seat as I moan, the feelings unbearably good, but I need more.

I need so much more, and tonight is the night I take it, moving my finger with his down to my entrance, helping him tease me, circling my opening, gathering wetness there.

“Jesus, Harper, you’re fucking soaked.” I moan at the reverence in his words, my mind so disconnected from reality as I slowly slide his finger into me, stretching and filling me much more than only my finger would.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, and my body slackens as his finger takes over, sliding out and then in. Soon both of us are working together to slowly fuck me in the passenger seat of his car.

It’s the hottest experience I’ve ever had; finger fucking myself with a man, the palm of his hand cupping my pussy and grinding right against my clit as I move my hips.

“That’s it, baby. Ride those for me.” The car is quiet except for my light moans, Wes’s labored breathing, and the wet sound of our fingers between my legs. I shift to take my hand away, to let him take over since he clearly knows what he’s doing, but he growls loudly, hand stopping me altogether and forcing me to freeze at the very real threat that he’ll stop.

“No, you keep your hand there,” he groans. “Finger fuck yourself with me. I want you to remember just how good we work together, Harper, so later, when you try and second-guess things, if you ever try to make yourself feel good again, you remember just how good of a team we make.”

I moan at his words, and even though the meaning of them should probably spike fear in me, brewing on that ever-constant worry that something will go bad, it doesn’t. Instead, I moan, my hips rocking, my hand over his, pushing deeper, tilting my hips to get where I need him most, to show him exactly what I like.

He’s a quick learner, alternating fucking me hard then fast, pressing his finger up along my G-spot, his palm scraping along my swollen clit and sending bolts of pleasure through me. It starts to build, tightening in my stomach and my lower back as I moan, legs wide, not a shred of embarrassment left in my system.

No, like this, with Wes groaning and finger fucking me, with my hand above his guiding him as he speeds home to finally fuck me for real. I feel perfect. Wanton and desired and like I could do no wrong.

We stay locked like that for what feels like a heartbeat and an eternity simultaneously when it starts to build, when my pussy tightens around both of our fingers, when my hips start to move more fervently, trying to tip the scale and come when suddenly, something changes.

Wes’s hand goes still, the car goes quiet, and I realize we’re home. He must have broken a dozen speeding laws, cutting the twenty-minute drive by at least ten.

“Wes,” I moan, my hand moving and then a whimper leaving my lips as he slides his hand out of me, taking mine with him. “No.”

“We’re home,” he whispers, then steps out of the car.

My body is on fire as I watch him slowly round the hood to the passenger side, smiling at me all the way. Fuck that. My hand moves, slipping beneath my wet underwear alone this time and beginning to rub my clit quickly to get myself over the edge. Finally, he opens the door to find me shifting in the seat, moaning gently. I hate to admit it, but he was right: it’s not nearly as good without his hand beneath mine.

“What do we have here?” he asks, eyes twinkling with laughter as I sit in the passenger seat, spread wide, rubbing myself. I need to come. It’s an all-consuming thing now, especially with Wes’s eyes on me, heated and just as needy as I feel.

“I need to come,” I moan.

“Couldn’t wait, could you?” he asks. He leans forward, and I expect him to grab me, pull me into the house, and fuck me until neither of us can move, but he doesn’t do that. Instead, with the trees lining his property and the dark of night nearly cloaking him, he grabs my hips, shifting me, pulling me until my ass is on the edge of the seat and tugging my panties down. It’s naughty, it’s revealing, and it makes my heart pound.

“This isn’t yours,” he says low, swatting my hand away and running a thick finger through my wetness. “This is all mine now, Harper. And look how fucking pretty it is.”

“Please,” I moan, not even bothering to argue with that. I can be a feminist and still want my husband to own my pussy.

“Please what?”

“Please make me come, Wes,” I plead, eyes on his. He smiles, then gives me what I want, no, need. Two thick fingers slide into me, hooking up and he starts to fuck me, hard and fast, his thumb brushing over my clit as he does. “Wes!” I shout, my head tipping back with the pleasure of it, but his free hand moves quickly to the nape of my neck, pushing my head forward until my forehead touches his.

“No, Harper. You’re going to look into my eyes and know your husband is the one giving you this.”

I breathe heavily and nod, and then it happens. I come, tumbling into a ravine of all-consuming pleasure that racks through my body violently. It seems to go on forever, his fingers slowing in me as the orgasm fades out, leaving me panting.

“We’re home now, wife. Now I can do everything I’ve been dreaming about for fucking years. First though.” He moves, grabbing my hand and moving so my hand is once more stacked under his, the opposite of how we spent the car ride. This time his hand is guiding mine toward my lips. “Clean these, baby.”

And then his middle finger and mine are in my mouth, his eyes locked on mine. I run my tongue over our fingers, moaning at the combined taste of me and him and the fucking promise in his eyes.

“Good girl,” he says with a smile before helping me out of the car, tugging my dress down, my panties long gone, and leading me toward the house.