4. Rowan #2
I let my knees spread wider, giving her room, and slide my own hand across the seat.
Under the hem of her dress. Up the inside of her thigh until my fingers find the thin cotton stretched over her cunt.
She’s still wet from what I did to her at the rest stop, warm and soft under the fabric.
I press two fingers against her clit through the underwear and rub in the same slow circle she’s using on me.
No one would guess a thing if they looked. Two people in the back seat, staring straight ahead. My hand hidden beneath her dress. Hers hidden by the angle of my leg and the console.
She keeps working me. Slow drags of her palm.
Occasional presses. Every time Simon’s eyes hit the mirror I have to lock my jaw and breathe through my nose.
My cock is straining hard against my zipper now, leaking enough that I can feel the damp spot forming inside my briefs.
She notices. I watch her mouth tilt, just the smallest satisfied curve, before it goes flat again.
I push back against her, firmer on her clit. “He had you for years,” I murmur, so low the road noise almost swallows it. “Never once made you this wet on a drive.”
Her fingers tighten around me in answer. One steady stroke. Then two.
Simon keeps talking. “I mean, I could’ve hired somebody. But it’s family stuff. You want family going through that, not strangers. That’s the right way to do it.”
My fingers press harder through her underwear. She’s soaked the cotton now. I trace the outline of her folds, then circle her clit again, matching the rhythm she’s using on my cock. Back and forth. Hand for hand. The car hums under us.
Her breathing stays even. Mine doesn’t. Every time she strokes me I feel it low in my gut, heat pulling tight.
I’ve been hard since the rest stop. I’m harder now.
She drags her palm down the full length of me and squeezes at the head, and my hips jerk before I can stop them. The seat squeaks. I freeze.
Simon glances in the mirror again. I force my face to stay bored, thumb still working her clit in tight, steady circles. She presses her free hand to her own thigh like she’s just resting it there, but her fingers flex once against the muscle.
I lean closer, mouth near her ear. “Look at you. Touching me like this while he’s right up there talking about land values. He never had any idea what to do with this pussy.”
She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps her hand moving. Palming me slow. She’s figured out exactly how much pressure makes my breathing change and she’s using it.
I’m losing it. I can feel it, the control I built this whole afternoon cracking apart.
I want to shove her dress higher, get my fingers inside her, finish what we started earlier.
I want to tell her to take me out. I don’t.
I keep rubbing her through the soaked fabric instead, because if I stop, she might stop, and I can’t stand the thought.
Her legs shift a little wider. I take it. Press harder on her clit. Feel her pulse against my fingers through the cotton.
Simon is still going about some nonsense. Miles are disappearing under the tires.
She works me for another long stretch. I’m sweating now, clenching my jaw every time her hand drags up the ridge of my cock. The head is sensitive enough that every pass makes my vision narrow. I’m right there on the edge and she knows it. She keeps the pressure even and just short of enough.
Then, without any fanfare, she lifts her hand off me.
Smooth. Decisive. Like it never happened.
A mile from the turnoff, just like she planned.
She smooths her dress down with both hands, folds them neatly in her lap, and turns her head to look out the window with the same calm, slightly bored expression she wore when this started.
Eyebrows up. Picture of composure. The front of my jeans is tented and my cock is throbbing, wet at the tip inside my pants.
I can still feel the heat of her cunt on my fingers.
I have never in my life wanted to get out of a car less.
***
The cabin comes up on the left at the end of a gravel track that’s mostly weeds now, and it’s smaller than I remembered and worse than the pictures.
Sagging porch, one shutter gone, the whole thing gone gray with a decade of nobody caring.
My grandmother used to grow tomatoes along the south wall.
There’s a satellite dish on the roof nobody’s used since before she died.
We get out. The three of us stand in the overgrown yard looking at it in the late light, and nobody says anything for a second, and I think about how many summers I spent here and how none of the people who spent them with me are speaking to each other now.
“It’s worse than the photos,” Elise says.
“The photos were from years ago.” Simon’s already heading for the porch with the keys out. “Before Mom stopped coming up here.”
The front door sticks. He has to put his shoulder into it, and when it gives, the smell comes out at us. Dust and mice and the particular sourness of a place that’s been shut since the last time somebody meant to come back.
Elise walks in ahead of me and stops in the middle of the front room, and I watch her take it in. The sheets over the furniture, the dead flies on the windowsills, the enormous amount of work standing between us and Sunday.
Simon goes up the stairs two at a time and we hear him moving around overhead. A door. Another door. Then his voice carrying down through the floorboards, already settled and pleased with itself.
“I’ve got the bedroom.”
Elise’s head comes up.
“There’s only one that’s still made up,” he calls down. “Rest of the mattresses are stripped. There’s the guest room and there’s the one across from it.”
She looks at the ceiling for a second like she’s counting to something.
“Fine,” she says.
Then she turns and looks at me, and neither of us says anything at all, and above us my brother is dragging his bag across the floor of the only made bed in the house.