Rent a Bank Robber
This is him. My knight in shining armor is here, holding me, and we’re sharing breath in the backseat of my car.
He tastes like possibilities along with the French fries he must have eaten with dinner.
It’s an addictive combination that leaves me wanting more by the time his tongue brushes against mine and makes me shudder against him.
My body is on fire, the flames shooting through me, practically singeing the ends of my hair.
And when his hands slide down my back to cup my butt, he sets off an explosion. It happens so fast.
One second, I’m kissing him like a normal person with a modicum of self-control and a trace of dignity.
The next, I’m grinding against him like my body knows exactly what it wants even if my brain is still catching up. I can feel him through his jeans. Hard, thick, pressing right where it counts. The friction alone is enough to make me whimper into his mouth.
“Easy,” he murmurs against my lips, his hands tightening on my hips. “Slow down.”
“I don’t want to slow down.” And I don’t. I’ve spent weeks thinking about this man, dreaming about what he looks like, replaying that night in the hotel over and over until I’ve worn it thin. Now he’s here, solid and warm and real, and I want all of him.
He pulls back just enough to speak. “Are you sure about this?”
The question hangs in the dark between us. A good question. He knows how inexperienced I am.
The fact that he would slow down long enough to ask wipes away every bit of doubt that might have lingered in the back of my mind. “Yes.”
“Because this isn’t what I had in mind when I mentioned something being in it for me. I need you to understand that.”
“I do.” I press a finger to his lips, or where I think his lips are. I get his chin first, then find my way. “Don’t make it a big deal. I want this. I want you.”
“It is a big deal.” His voice is rougher now, strained, like he’s fighting with himself. “Are you sure?”
“I literally volunteered to be your hostage. I think we’ve established that I know what I want.” That gets a low laugh out of him, and the tension breaks just enough. “Besides, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount.”
“Yeah?” His thumb traces a circle on my hip, slow and deliberate, and my breath catches. “Me too.”
“So stop talking me out of it.”
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his hands slide under my dress, fingers warm against my bare thighs, and he pulls me tighter against him. The kiss that follows is deeper, slower, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.
I melt into it, into him, my fingers finding the hem of his shirt and tugging it up until I can press my palms flat against his stomach. The muscles there tighten under my touch, and I trace them, fascinated, wishing I could see what I’m feeling.
There’s some fumbling after that, the kind that probably looks ridiculous but feels electric.
His belt, my underwear, the awkward logistics of the backseat of a Corolla, which was definitely not designed for this.
He helps me, guiding me with steady hands even though I can feel his heart hammering when I press against his chest.
“Wait,” I breathe when I feel him, right there, hot and solid against me. “It’s okay. I’m on the pill—for my cycle,” I add, because apparently, I turn into a medical narrator when I’m nervous.
“Good to know,” he manages, and I can hear the smile in his voice even through the tension.
“All right.” I exhale. “I’m ready.”
“We’ll go slow.” His hands frame my hips, steadying me as I lower myself. “You’re in control. Whatever you need.”
The first stretch makes me suck in a breath through my teeth. It’s pressure and fullness and a sharp sting that radiates outward, and for a second, I freeze, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “Um… ow.”
“Breathe.” One hand leaves my hip to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking along my jaw and easing the tension. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”
I breathe. In and out, slowly, feeling my body adjust around him while he stays perfectly still beneath me. Patient. The sting fades to an ache, and the ache fades to something warmer, deeper. I shift experimentally, and we both make a sound. Surprise from me. Something deep and guttural from him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, guiding my hips into a slow rhythm. “Just like that. You feel incredible.”
I don’t know about incredible. What I feel is overwhelmed. By the fullness, by his voice in the dark, by the way his hands move me like he already knows my body better than I do. But then he shifts just slightly, and something lights up that I didn’t know was there.
“Oh,” I whisper. “Oh, that’s…”
“Right there?” He does it again, rolling his hips up to meet mine, and my head falls back.
“Yeah. Right there. Don’t stop doing that.”
He doesn’t stop. He keeps the same angle, the same steady rhythm, one hand on my hip and the other tangled in my hair, pulling me down to kiss him while I rock against him.
The ache is gone now, replaced by a heat that builds and builds, coiling tighter in my belly with every movement.
My thighs are shaking—from effort, from sensation, from everything—and the little sounds escaping me are completely beyond my control.
“Let go,” he breathes against my throat. “I’ve got you.”
It’s those words that push me over. Not just what he says, but how he says it, low and steady, like a promise. The wave crashes through me, sharper and brighter than anything I felt in that hotel room, and I cry out against his shoulder while my whole body clenches around him.
His groan is deep and harsh, before he follows me with a few hard, desperate thrusts. Then he goes still, his arms wrapping tight around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
For a while, neither of us moves. I’m draped against his chest, boneless, listening to his heart pound while the windows fog around us. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, and I close my eyes, breathing him in.
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