Chapter 7 - Claire
This can't be real.
None of this can be real.
I don't do things like this. I'm the girl who plans everything, who overthinks everything, who talks herself out of taking risks because what if it goes wrong?
I don't climb into men's laps in the front seat of my broken-down car in the middle of a rainstorm. Especially not men who look like Nash. Men who are older and experienced and so far out of my league it's laughable.
But he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, and my brain has officially stopped working.
He just told me he jerks off thinking about me. Every day since I moved in. And I can see the evidence of what I do to him right there in his jeans. The thick bulge straining against the denim, impossible to miss in the close confines of the car.
Nash Holland wants me.
The knowledge makes me brave in a way I've never been before. I manage to get one knee on his side of the center console, my dress riding up my thighs, and I'm awkward and clumsy and this car is too small for this but I don't care.
"Claire." His voice is strained. "What are you—"
"I don't know," I admit breathlessly. "I just… I need to—"
I get my other knee over and suddenly I'm straddling him, my knees on either side of his hips, my dress bunched up around my thighs, and oh god, I can feel him.
Feel the hard length of him pressed right against me through our clothes. I make a sound that should be embarrassing but I'm beyond embarrassment now.
His hands come up to grip my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he groans. "Fuck."
I've never heard him curse before.
I want to hear it again.
"Is this okay?" I ask, even though I'm already in his lap and we're pressed together and there's no going back now.
"Okay?" He lets out a rough laugh. "Claire, I'm about to lose my goddamn mind."
"Good," I breathe, and then I roll my hips.
His head falls back against the seat and his grip on my hips tightens.
"Jesus Christ."
The rain is pounding on the roof now, so loud it drowns out everything else. We're in our own little world. Just us and the darkness and the heat building between us.
I can feel how wet I am. How soaked my underwear is. The fabric is clinging to me and I know he can probably feel it too through his jeans.
The thought should mortify me.
Instead it makes me wetter.
"I want to see you," I whisper.
His eyes snap open. "What?"
"Your—" I can't say it. Can't make myself say the word even though we're past the point of pretending this isn't happening. "I want to see."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," I interrupt. "Please. I've been thinking about it. About you. About what you look like and—"
I'm rambling again but I can't stop, and his hands are moving from my hips to cup my face, tilting my head down so I'm looking right at him.
"You've been thinking about my cock?" he asks, and the bluntness of it catches me off guard.
I nod.
"Say it."
"I've been thinking about your cock," I whisper.
He makes a sound low in his throat that goes straight between my legs.
"You want to see it?"
"Yes."
"Touch it?"
"Yes."
"Suck it?"
Oh my god.
"Yes," I breathe. "Yes, please, I want—"
He kisses me. His tongue slides into my mouth and I moan against his lips, my hands fisting in his shirt. I grind down against him and he groans into my mouth, his hands sliding down to grip my ass, pulling me harder against the ridge of his cock.
Even through our clothes, it's almost too much.
The friction is perfect and terrible and not nearly enough.
I break the kiss, panting, and fumble for his belt.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get the buckle undone, and Nash just watches me struggle, his chest heaving, his eyes so dark they're almost black.
"You sure about this?" he asks, and his voice is wrecked.
"So sure."
"We can stop. We can just… We can wait."
"I don't want to wait." I finally get his belt undone and move to the button of his jeans. "I've been waiting for months. Watching you and wanting you and telling myself I couldn't have you because you'd never want someone like me."
"Someone like you?" He catches my hands, stilling them. "Claire, look at me."
I look up.
"I have wanted you," he says slowly, "since the first moment I saw you. Every single day. Every single moment. There is nothing about you I don't want."
Tears prick at my eyes and I blink them back furiously. "Don't make me cry right now. I'm trying to get your dick out."
He chuckles, and the sound is so unexpected and genuine that I can't help but smile.
"Okay," he says. "Okay. But Claire—"
"What?"
"I'm not—" He hesitates. "I'm not small."
It takes me a second to understand what he's saying.
"Oh," I breathe.
"And I don't want to hurt you. So, if at any point you want to stop—"
"I won't want to stop."
"If you do—"
"I'll tell you." I lean in and kiss him quickly. "I promise. Now please let me see."
He releases my hands and I make quick work of the button and zipper on his jeans. I have to lift up slightly to give myself room to maneuver, and then I'm tugging at the waistband of his boxer briefs and—
Oh! He wasn't kidding about not being small. His cock springs free, thick and long and flushed dark with need, and I just stare at it because I don't know what else to do.
I've seen dicks before. I'm not a virgin. But this is—
He's—
"Fuck," I whisper.
"Too much?" His voice is tight.
"No. No, it's—" I wrap my hand around him and he's so thick my fingers don't quite meet. "You're perfect."
He groans, his head falling back against the seat again, and I feel a surge of power.
I did that. I made him make that sound. I stroke him, base to tip, and his hips jerk.
"Claire—"
"Tell me what you like," I say.
"Anything. Everything. Just—fuck—just keep touching me."
I stroke him again, firmer this time, and watch his face. The way his jaw clenches. The way his eyes squeeze shut. The way his hands are gripping the seat so hard his knuckles are white.
He's holding back. Keeping himself in check even though I can see how much he wants to move, to thrust, to take.
"You don't have to be gentle," I tell him. "I'm not going to break."
His eyes open and the look in them makes my breath catch.
"Yeah, you will," he says roughly. "If I stop holding back, I'll break you in half."
The image that puts in my head, of him losing control, of him taking what he wants, of him breaking me in the best possible way, makes me clench around nothing.
I lean down, and before I can second-guess myself, I lick the tip of his cock.
"Claire…"
I do it again, tasting the salt of precum, and then I take him into my mouth. Or I try to. He's so thick I can barely get the head past my lips, and I have to work my jaw open wider, taking him in inch by inch.
The sound he makes is inhuman.
His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needs something to anchor himself.
"You don't have to—oh fuck—you don't have to take it all—"
I want to, though. I want to take him as deep as I can. Want to make him lose control. Want to hear him make those sounds again. I relax my throat and take him deeper, and his grip in my hair tightens.
"Claire, Jesus, your mouth—"
I bob my head, working him with my hand where my mouth can't reach, and the rain outside is so loud but I can still hear him. The rough groans. The harsh breathing. The way he says my name like a prayer.
This is better than any fantasy I've had.
Better than anything I imagined during those late nights when I touched myself thinking about him. Because it's real. He's real. And he's falling apart because of me.
I hollow my cheeks and suck hard, and he swears again.
"Stop," he grits out. "Claire, stop, I'm going to—"
I don't stop.
I take him deeper and swirl my tongue around the head and feel his whole body go rigid beneath me.
"Claire…"
He comes with a shout, his hips bucking up, and I swallow as much as I can but there's so much, and some of it spills out the corner of my mouth. I pull off him slowly, licking him clean, and when I finally sit back and look at him, he's staring at me like I just performed a miracle.
His chest is heaving, his hair is a mess from where I grabbed it, and he looks utterly destroyed.
"Come here," he says roughly.
I lean forward and he kisses me, hard and deep, tasting himself on my tongue. Then his hand is sliding up my thigh, under my dress, and I realize with a jolt what he's about to do.
"Nash, you don't—"
"My turn," he says against my lips, his cock still hard.
His fingers find the edge of my underwear and I'm suddenly very aware of how wet I am. How soaked the fabric is. How I've been dripping since the restaurant and it's only gotten worse.
He's going to know.
He's going to feel exactly what he does to me.
His fingers slide under the fabric and he freezes.
"Fuck, Claire. You're—"
"I know," I gasp. "I told you, I've been… Since you touched me at dinner I've been—"
He slides one thick finger through my folds and I choke on whatever I was going to say.
"You're drenched," he says, and he sounds awed. "All this for me?"
"Yes."
He finds my clit and circles it slowly, and my hips jerk.
"You sat through dinner like this?"
"Yes."
"Sat in this car with me, soaking wet, and didn't say anything?"
"I couldn't… I didn't think you'd—oh—"
He slides a finger inside me.
"Didn't think I'd what?" he asks, adding a second finger, stretching me. "Didn't think I'd want to touch you? Didn't think I'd want to make you come?"
I can't answer. Can't form words. His fingers are thick and rough and they're hitting something inside me that makes my vision blur.
"I've wanted to touch you for months," he says, his voice low and dark in my ear. "Wanted to find out if you'd be this wet for me. Wanted to make you come so hard you forget your own name."
I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die right here in the front seat of my car. His thumb finds my clit and I cry out, my hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you."
"Nash, I—I'm going to—"
"Come for me, Claire. Let me feel it."
He crooks his fingers, and I shatter. The orgasm hits me so hard I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but shake and moan and clench around his fingers while he works me through it.
"Good girl," he's saying. "That's my good girl. So fucking perfect."
I'm dimly aware that I'm crying. That there are tears streaming down my face. That I'm making sounds I've never made before. And he just keeps touching me, drawing it out, until I'm boneless and trembling in his lap.
When I finally come back to myself, I'm slumped against his chest, his arms wrapped around me, his hand still between my legs.
"You okay?" he asks.
I laugh. It comes out shaky and breathless. "I think you killed me."
"Good."
We sit there in the darkness, wrapped around each other, while the rain continues to pour.
My dress is a mess. My makeup is probably ruined. My hair is everywhere.
I've never felt more perfect in my life.
"This is insane," I murmur against his chest.
"Yeah."
"We're supposed to be fake dating."
"I know."
"This doesn't feel very fake."
His arms tighten around me. "No. It doesn't."
I pull back enough to look at him. "What are we doing, Nash?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his hand coming up to cup my face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on my cheeks.
"I don't know," he admits. "But I don't want to stop."
"Me neither."
"Your parents—"
"Can deal with it." I lean into his touch. "Whatever this is, whatever we're doing, I want to keep doing it."
"Even if it's real?"
"Especially if it's real."