Chapter 40
MASON
Idrive a mile before I pull over.
My hands are shaking on the wheel. My entire body is wound so tight I can barely breathe. Her taste is still on my lips—sweet and tempting and mine. The residual feel of her hands on my chest burns through the fabric of my shirt like a brand.
I'm so hard it hurts.
The truck rolls to a stop on a dark stretch of county road. No lights, no houses—just empty Montana night and the sound of my ragged breathing filling the cab.
I should drive home. I should go back to the ranch, take a cold shower, get my head straight.
Instead, my hand drops to my belt.
Tugging the end free, I unbuckle it and drag the zipper down, running my hand up my dick as I pull it out.
I close my eyes and I'm back in her living room. Her body pressed against mine. Her mouth on mine, soft and demanding and choosing me. The way she rose on her tiptoes like she wanted more, like she needed more, like nothing would stop her from wanting this.
From wanting me.
As I wrap my hand around myself and squeeze, my phone buzzes. The ringtone, the one I assigned to her number after I texted her, cuts through the silence like a blade.
My hand freezes mid-stroke. My eyes snap open, and I reach for the phone with my free hand.
My Pretty Girl
How much?
My dick still hard and aching in my grip, my thumb hovers over the keyboard as I wonder if I should wait to reply.
Who am I kidding?
How much what?
My Pretty Girl
How much did you like it?
“Fuck me.” Groaning, my head drops back. I'm already leaking—already desperate. Talking about what her lips and hands on me did to me, what she made me feel, will push me over. I squeeze myself, holding my orgasm off.
I’m sitting on the side of the road, dick in my hand, imagining your hands on me.
That much.
There’s no reply. Did I go too far, scare her? I’m about to text her back when I get one from her.
My Pretty Girl
I don't know what I'm doing.
I don't know how to do this.
Do what?
My Pretty Girl
THIS
Men
Sex
I’ve never been with a live person.
Wait, I don’t mean it like that.
I’m not into necrophilia. I just mean I’ve never had sex with anything that wasn’t inanimate.
Christ.
My hand tightens around my dick, imagining being her first—her only. A kink I didn’t know I had makes my dick pulse. I start stroking again—slow, my eyes locked on the screen.
Given the state of my dick, I think you’re doing just fine.
My Pretty Girl
I can’t stop thinking about you.
That includes your dick, FYI.
Careful, Lily.
I’m on a hair trigger here.
My Pretty Girl
What are you doing?
Tell me.
I’m doing what you think I’m doing.
And I’m thinking about you while I’m doing it.
My Pretty Girl
What are you thinking?
How I want to kiss you all night long.
How I want to feel your legs wrapped around my waist and your nails digging into my skin.
How I’m going to make you scream my name.
My breath comes out harsh and ragged just thinking about all that, and my hand moves faster.
I bet you’d be wet.
I bet you’d drench me.
I bet you’d taste delicious.
My Pretty Girl
I am.
Wet.
Fuck.
My grip turns brutal. My hips jerk up into my fist. The image of her—standing alone in her house, aroused and scared and brave enough to tell me—shatters every last piece of my control.
My hips jerk up, driving my shaft into my fist. My head knocks back against the seat. The cab is filled with the sound of my breathing, harsh and uneven, and the slick rhythm of my hand working my dick.
I want her hands on me. I want her hands to explore my naked body, on my bare skin instead of over my clothing. I want her fingers to curl around my hardness, pumping me, her sweet voice whispering in my ear, asking me what I want.
There’s only one answer—her.
“Lily.” I come hard, my body going rigid, her name torn from my throat like a prayer. The release is a flash and overwhelming, but not nearly enough. I keep stroking through it, wringing every last drop of pleasure from my body, my mind still full of her—her taste, her touch, her choice.
When it's over, I slump back in the seat, breathing hard, my hand still wrapped around my still-hard dick.
The cab smells like sex and desperation. I clean myself up with a rag from the glove box, tuck myself back into my jeans, and try to catch my breath as I focus on my phone.
Now it’s your turn, pretty girl.