22. Lottie #2
Dana’s face was only barely illuminated by the passing headlights, but I could see the little grin she bit back. “Sorry, Lottie. Thought you were asleep.”
“Sleep is for the weak.” The words echoed in my mind, a memory of them being some sort of song lyric playing over and over. Sleep is for the weak. Sleep is for the weak. Sleep is for the weak.
“We get it,” Hunter grumbled.
Shit, was that out loud again?
“Yes,” Dana deadpanned.
I spun back around in my seat and slumped into it the right way forward. “Your mom is weird,” I said, turning my gaze to Hunter. In the flickering light and the ambiance of the dashboard, he looked far more attractive than usual. Hard lines, creased brows, eyes trained on the road to keep us alive.
A true gentleman.
“What? How?”
“How what?”
“How is she weird, Lots?” he asked, his fingers snaking across the center console to wrap around my knee. Little electric shots stemmed up from it, making that spot between my thighs tingle.
So fucking hot.
“You think my mom is hot?”
“What? No, you.”
“I don’t think my mom is hot,” he said, patience dripping from every word.
“No, no, I mean you’re hot,” I giggled. My mind was a heavy haze of alcohol and I was absolutely not thinking straight when I wrapped my fingers around his hand and dragged it up my thigh. “Touch me.”
“Oh my God, Charlotte, I’m still here!” Dana laughed.
Hunter’s hand lowered on my thigh, meeting me halfway and stopping in the center. “Sorry, Dana,” Hunter said, his gaze flicking to the mirror. “Do you know why she thinks my mom is weird?”
“Her boobs,” I answered, dragging out the word for far too long. “They’re like… massive. Cement. Perky.”
He did his absolute best to keep his composure. “She got them done last year.”
“Hunter?” I turned to him again, wrapping my fingers tighter around his. “Can you take Dana home?”
The truck shifted into park a second later, his headlights illuminating an apartment complex. It looked oddly familiar, the staircase to the right, the curtains hanging from the second floor…
“Oh! It’s Dana’s house!”
Dana’s door kicked open. “Sorry to leave you with this mess,” she laughed. “Good luck with that one.”
“It’s alright. Drink lots of water,” Hunter told her.
“I think she’s the one you need to worry about with that.” She grabbed her bag from the back and reached around my seat, patting me on the head. “Bye, Lottie.”
“Bye.”
The door shut behind me, cutting off the freezing air. Dana jogged up the steps of her apartment, flashing a quick wave before she disappeared into the warmth of the building.
I pulled Hunter’s hand back up to the crotch of my jeans. “Please.”
He shifted into reverse and slowly backed out of the complex, his cheeks turning pink. “You’re drunk,” he chuckled. But he didn’t move his hand.
“I’m horny.” I grabbed the blanket around my shoulders and pulled it off.
My skin felt too warm, almost like I was suffocating under the layers of my jacket and shirt.
I could feel myself getting wetter and wetter between my thighs at just the thought of being fully naked in the car beside him, with one of his hands on my clit and the other on the wheel. “Please.”
“Do you want me to take you back to the hospital or your house?”
His words barely registered as I moved myself around in my seat, squirming out of my jacket. I chucked it into the back. “I wanna go to your place.” The words came out in a jumbled mess, all at the same time.
“You can’t even speak,” he sighed, letting his head fall back against the headrest as we stopped at a traffic light. I fought with my shirt next, trying to work out which way my arms needed to go to get it off. “Please stop trying to take off your clothes.”
“I. Want. To. Go. To. Your. Place,” I said, enunciating every single word so he understood this time. Finally, I got my shirt off, setting my breasts free. “Touch me.”
“ Lottie. ”
I reached across the center console, inhibitions completely gone and wrapped my fingers around the shape of his cock over his pants. I was met with rigidness, his desire giving him away. “You want to,” I giggled. Another hiccup came out with it.
“Of course I want to,” he grumbled. “But you’re drunk, and I’m driving.”
The truck began to slow down. I blinked a few times, looking to see where we were at.
We were parked outside of a three-story home built out of wood, a warm glow coming from the massive windows that formed a large triangle at the center.
It was at least ten times bigger than my family home but it was warm and inviting, and so stereotypically Hunter.
Even through my drunken haze, I knew instantly that it was his house.
I turned to him. His seatbelt was off, his gaze directed at me as the truck idled in park.
I couldn’t remember the last thing that was said, all I could think about was how perfect he looked, how much he felt like home, how pretty his lips were, and how long his hair had grown. I wanted to drag my fingers through it.
“Lottie?”
I shoved the blanket off me that had somehow reappeared, baring my chest to him again.
“For fuck’s sake.”
I didn’t care. I unbuttoned my jeans, forcing them and my underwear down my thighs, kicking off my shoes in the process.
I pulled everything off. Heat was burning me from the inside out, and within a second, I’d lifted the center console between us to reveal the hidden seat beneath and wiggled my way out of the seatbelt.
I crawled across to him, and he welcomed me with open arms, pulling me into his lap to straddle him.
“You’re drunk,” he whispered, his cool hand sliding across my cheek. “So very drunk.”
“I don’t care.” I pressed my lips to his and he welcomed the kiss, humming his satisfaction against my mouth.
Deepening it, I kissed him greedily, exploring every inch of his mouth and committing his taste to memory.
My hips pressed against his stomach, seeking friction, seeking any kind of touch, but he didn’t give it. Only kisses, only gentleness.
I didn’t want gentle.
“Fuck me,” I begged, breathing the words into his mouth. “Please, Hunter.”
Images flashed in my mind of the things I wanted him to do to me.
Bending me over, holding my hands behind my back, fucking me relentlessly until I was a sobbing mess on the floor.
Pulling my hair, wrapping those perfect fucking hands around my throat, calling me a good girl.
Telling me how well I take him. How perfectly I fit his cock. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“Fuck me,” I said again, more urgently, the words slurring together. “I need it. I need you,” I whined.
“You need water and greasy food,” he growled, his fingers tightening around my waist and the back of my neck. “And a shower. You smell wrong.”
I smelled wrong?
“You smell like…,” He pressed his nose to my neck, breathing me in, leaving little kisses everywhere he sniffed. “…like lavender.”
“Massage oil.” It came out as one jumbled, unintelligible word.
“What?”
“Massage… oil.” My eyelids felt heavy. So, so heavy, like cinderblocks were attached to each eyelash and were dragging them down.
I let my forehead fall onto his shoulder and braced my hands against his hardened chest. Those images flashed in my mind again, taunting me, making me wetter, needier. “Fuck.”
“Lottie?”