63. Angel #4
Andrew hits the open blacktop of the Palisades Parkway. I glance over at him, connecting my phone to the upgraded Bluetooth. “I’m gonna make you feel somethin’.”
His smile jumps, confused.
I turn up the dial on the heat to full blast. “Just for two minutes. Trust me. Roll your window down. Three quarters. Then hit sixty.”
We roll our windows down at the same time, then Andrew opens up the throttle, dropping the Firebird into fourth gear until the needle touches sixty.
Violent, freezing wind slams inside,
tearing my hair loose,
ripping the air from my lungs.
Our heads fall back against the headrest.
The heat crawls up from our feet
just as the song fades in.
Then we’re flying into the empty dark, the strobing yellow blur of the highway lights stroking the hood.
The track builds, electronic throbs layering and layering—a cold ache starting in my ribcage and pulling down into my stomach.
My chest feels pressure, like someone else’s heart’s moving inside, pressing up right next to mine.
It feels so full, it starts to heave.
The music gives me no relief,
it only swells as the cold air bites,
the hazy heat slides up,
an immortal rush.
The winter wind pulses alongside it—
a rhythmic thud-thud-thud-thud
beating into the car.
The music’s racing to the breaking point,
a wild panic of a heart rate speeding up.
My throat goes tight
with a sudden urge to cry—
And when the chorus breaks,
and the heavy beat punches cold into your face,
the urge snaps at the climax—
leaving, not tears, but a smile.
Andrew and I look over at the same time.
He’s smiling too.
“Feel that?” I ask him.
“Yeah.”
“That’s you.”
“That’s me?”
I nod, looking out the windshield again.
“That’s what you feel like to me.”
He hits the blinker.
My eyes dart back to him.
“What are you doing?”
“Pullin’ over.”
“Why?”
His gaze leaves the road
and crashes back into me.
“I gotta kiss you.”
The Firebird drifts toward the shoulder, engine dropping from a growl to a hot rumble.
The tires crackle across salt and gravel.
Andrew puts it in first gear.
The bass keeps going.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
He’s turning into me,
grabbing the back of my head,
and his mouth lands on mine,
warm and soft.
When his hand slides into my hair,
he opens the kiss,
his tongue touching mine,
a slow stroke that makes heat
sink into my skin.
And again, deeper, wetter,
all tides—
pulling me in,
spitting me out dizzy.
“You tired?” he asks me,
thumb stroking my cheekbone.
“No.”
“Good.
“I wanna keep drivin’ with you.”
// 4:32 AM //
Andrew pulls up to Rockefeller Lookout, the Firebird’s nose pointing at the stone edge, where four hundred feet below us, the Hudson’s a sheet of black glass.
Soon as he kills the headlights,
the Parkway disappears behind us,
while New York shines in front of us,
the skyline burning bright.
It’s not the same city I live inside,
the one that smells like weed and piss.
This one feels far away,
untouchable. Magical.
Manhattan, a wall of golden glitter.
The George Washington Bridge hangs to our right, beads of lights strung across the dark over the river.
Andrew cuts the V8,
and the heater gives one last warm sigh.
Then even that goes.
Until he twists the key backward,
clicking the ignition into accessory.
He pulls a cassette out of the center console, opens the case, and pops it in.
The Firebird eats the tape,
and a riff fades through the speakers.
I side-eye him. “Oh, so fuckin’ smooth.”
He tosses the case back into the console.
“Little Aerosmith for my girl.”
We sit in the dark.
Andrew and me.
Seeing New York from Jersey.
He leans back, head against the backrest.
“You know what’s stupid?” he says, eyes on the windshield.
“In the beginning, after that night at Type, I’d come to this spot after work sometimes.
Sit right here and swear I could feel you.
” He huffs a small laugh, then shrugs. “That maybe if I stared at the city long enough, it’d tell me where the hell you went. ”
After a few beats of silence pass,
he turns to look at me.
“You ever come across someone and just… know? Like your bones fuckin’ recognize ‘em?”
I can’t answer.
So I nod.
And then he nods.
“Yeah. That’s you.”
I smile stupid.
He done romanced me, and now,
it don't think no more, my brain.
It be feelings in me where the thinking used to was.
It don't be thoughts.
It be Andrew.
So I sit, shiver, and stare at him,
when my brain goes,
ooh, ooh I got something:
“‘Cause we're the first soulmates ever.”
His head falls back into the headrest.
“I was drunk that night.”
My head tilts, disappointed. “So we’re not the original soulmates anymore?”
His blush turns crimson in the dark.
“Why’re you doin’ this to me right now? I got you the Firebird, the skyline, tryin’ to be romantic.”
I sigh long, feigning disappointment.
“Either we are, or we’re not.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, biting his lip.
“You and me, the original soulmates.
“The reason we keep messin' this up.”
Sick of the distance between us,
he reaches across the gap,
one hand tight around my hip,
the other scooping up my thigh,
pulling me toward him,
and my body surrenders.
He slides me over the stick shift,
the emergency brake.
My knees wrap his thighs
as I sink into his lap,
the low-slung driver’s seat cradling us.
“Right here. Been needin' you right here,” he says, settling back, tugging me down against him.
Then his hand slides up my back
until I’m melting into his chest.
His shaky lips say Kiss me.
Mine say No.
The ache makes him smile.
Then his say Fuckin’ kiss me.
Mine smiles back, saying ...No
Instead, I pull a present from my jacket pocket—a little something I slipped off at the gas station.
I dangle the panties between us.
“First, I want you to show me what you did after you stole my panties.”
His eyes drop to the black lace swinging from my pinched fingers, the cocky in his smile dying on his lips—fucked.
His thumb rubs in slow circles over my hip. He clears his throat. “You took those off when?”
“At the gas station.”
His mouth twitches,
and he looks down.
“So you’re sittin’ on me bare right now.”
“Mhm.”
A breath shudders out of him, tasting like mint riding on the edge of Coconut Red Bull.
I lean in. “Tell me, Andrew.
“What do you need these for, huh?”
He hangs his head with a groan.
“Allison. It’s dirty. I’m fuckin’ dirty.”
“I know. That’s why I asked.”
His laugh breaks.
“Yeah. You did.”
I nod.
His eyes flick up, then away fast. “Fuck. You got me nervous and blushin’ like a kid.”
I wait him out,
nowhere for him to escape.
“Aight.” He nods. “Okay.”
He drops his head back,
looks at me through his lashes.
“When I wasn’t stayin’ with you.
“At night. After I’d get home from the bar…” He looks away, a shameful turn of his head. “I’d—uh… hold them…”
A tiny laugh sneaks out of me.
“That’s it? You just hold them?”
His eyes slide back to me.
“And smell ‘em.”
I grin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand slides up my thigh, and he drags me across the ridge of his stiffening erection. “For hours, I’m watchin’ the clock, cravin’ you, so ready to fuckin’ go. And on nights I can’t actually be with you?
“Fuck—I’m outta my mind.
“You’re all I think about.
“Your voice. The way you smell.
“The way you taste…”
Andrew takes the panties from me slow, and he props his elbow on the center console, holds them to his mouth, breathing them in as he squeezes them into his fist.
His lashes fall heavy. “I’ll be dead tired, gotta be up in four hours, and there I am with your panties against my mouth, thinkin’ about bein’ back between your thighs… Gets me so hard so fuckin’ fast.”
My thighs tighten around him,
my fingers tracing the hem of his shirt.
“Then what do you do?” I ask.
The city lights drip along his jaw as his thumb traces over the black lace. “I jerk off with ‘em,” he rasps out, his eyes going dark like collapsed stars—starved. “Pretend it’s your hand on me.”
I bite down on my lip,
running my palm up under his shirt
and across his heaving chest.
His lashes flutter,
a curse leaving his lips.
I watch his face go under, helpless
as I slide down his tight stomach,
his abs flexing,
and dip inside his boxers.
My knuckles graze his pelvis,
all soft hair and heat.
His cock is so close
I can feel the throb waiting for me.
His hand drags up and down my thigh, squeezing as I undo his button on his jeans, ease them open.
The zipper follows,
teeth parting one by one.
“Show me how you touch yourself,” I whisper. My panties are wrapped tight around his fingers pressing close to his nose and lips.
He inhales the scent deep into his lungs as his hips lift into me like they can’t help it.
I lean in close,
my head pressed to his brow,
raking my fingers over his ear.
“You look awfully possessed for a man with free will.”
“Free will? Nah…”
His smirk jumps.
“I’m yours so bad it’s embarrassin’.”
“Prove it,” I murmur.
His forehead melts to mine,
his chest heaving.
Then his hand leaves my hip,
slips down between my thighs.
I watch him drag out his heavy cock,
veins hard under swollen, silky skin.
And I feel myself soak his jeans.
“Talk to me,” I beg.
“How do you touch yourself?”
His next breath shoves out broken
as he massages his cock in his fist.
“Slow at first,” he murmurs,
his damp lips brushing mine.
“Tryin’ to make it last long as possible. Thinkin’ about how wet and warm you get for me. How tight you grip me when you let me in. I think about you, Allison… back at your penthouse touchin’ yourself while thinkin’ about me. Only me. You knowin’ what I’m doin’ and gettin’ off on it too.”
“I do,” I murmur,
watching him stroke himself.
His head falls back against the seat, lashes low. “Then I just lose it,” he says, defeated, his fist dragging his cock, looking at me with that open-mouthed, fucked-out stare.
“Ti supplico… prendimi,” he rasps.
My hand wraps his, stopping him,
and I sweep my thumb over the tip,
catch the leak of pre-cum he’s spilling for me.
I bring it to my mouth,
lick him off my thumb—
warm, faint taste, salt and sweet,
the first time I've ever tasted anyone.
His throat bobs as he watches,
brows knot up, eyes gone.
It ruins him.
The sight alone ruins him.