Vik Parshad
‘You sure you want to do this?’
Their breaths are hot and heavy. Belle sits with her legs either side of Vik’s lap, her knees bracketing his hips in the passenger seat of his car, an old silver Audi with a grey interior.
A faded Jelly Bean scent diffuser wafts a subtle lemon-drop fragrance that hardly masks the stink of takeaway burgers and chips, whose discarded packets crunch under his foot as he repositions.
He’s a big guy, wide in a way that leaves no room for anything else.
She doesn’t remember who moved first. She’s not sure it matters.
Her fingers find handfuls of his inky black hair, and she holds on as he rolls back the seat as far as it can go. His other hand grips her arse hungrily. ‘Yes, yes …’ she says, reaching down to pull her top over her head.
He takes a swig from the bottle of whisky on the seat next to them, before handing it to her.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as she drinks.
He watches her swallow. The hot liquid burns her throat, makes her head spin a little faster, but also quietens her brain; she was not expecting anyone to see her naked today.
Her thoughts drift from concern about how her faded blue knickers don’t match the black cotton of her bra, to what his dick looks like.
Whether it’ll feel different. Whether she’s capable of feeling anything at all anymore.
She watches now as Vik unknots his tie and tosses it back without looking, not caring where it lands, because his eyes are on her – on the way her breasts are filling out her bra – and she feels it, the weight of his stare.
He unbuttons his shirt, their warm chests now touching.
He makes a sound low in his throat and pulls her closer.
‘Ugh, this feels so wrong,’ she says to the ceiling as he busies himself unbuckling his belt, his mouth on her chest, her hand against the cold window, fingers splayed out.
‘That’s why it’s so fun,’ he grunts, and she recognises that: the lightness of it, the jokey deflection.
She doesn’t call him on it, instead just moves onto her knees, hitching her skirt up, making way for him to slide his trousers down.
She catches a glimpse of his boxers. They’re bright blue, ordinary.
There’s a tiny hole in the crotch. He wasn’t expecting this either. Neither of them was.
Her leg slips off the seat, and her heel hits the glovebox, which opens; old phone charger leads, a walkie-talkie, and protein bar wrappers tumble out.
‘Shit, sorry,’ she says, turning to look behind, but he takes her chin in his hand and turns her face back to his.
‘Fuck, you’re so sexy,’ he whispers, his chin dropped to his chest, eyes tracking down her body, mouth falling open slightly in a way he probably doesn’t realise. Belle leans forward to kiss him before he can finish looking, and also to stop him from talking. It’s wet and sloppy.
Belle had always wondered what car sex would be like. Passionate, intense, steamy, she thought in her fantasies. His tongue slides into her mouth. In reality, it’s clumsy, poky, and a little smelly. The car looked bigger from the outside, she thinks. He attempts to nibble her lip.
What if someone walks past? Sees them. Recognises them.
She pulls back, breathless, and she motions to the bottle.
He hands it over and she drinks a desperate gulp.
He finds the back of her bra strap. He fiddles with it – the strap – excitedly, like a kid unwrapping the bow on a present.
Except he’s unable to open it while also planting kisses on her cheek, her chin, her neck.
She ends up unclasping it herself after throwing the bottle aside, neck hitched forward so as not to bump it against the ceiling.
‘There should be a condom in the glovebox,’ he manages, voice low, as she grinds on his lap.
Handy, she thinks, but doesn’t answer, just reaches back, fingers finding the shiny wrapper in the dark. She presses it into his hand without looking, and he takes it.
She watches as he blows into the end of the rubber, shimmies his boxers down and places it on his cock.
She closes her eyes as he sorts himself out.
Her hands move over her own skin, her body whisky-warm and wanting.
She touches herself properly, one hand in her knickers, and she rubs, her head thrown back, her other hand bracing on the ceiling when she hears, ‘Oh fuck.’ He stumbles.
His eyes are wide, his dick hard and pulsing, and she rises.
She lowers herself onto him. They both exhale at exactly the same moment, collapsing into each other with a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob – her forehead against his shoulder, his hands guiding her thighs, the car rocking with them.
The windows are steamed up now; Belle thinks back to the car scene in Titanic that she loves so much, his body shuddering beneath her.