4. Cash #2
“Not here,” I say against her throat. “The bench. More room.”
We move, clumsy and laughing and half undone, into the dark of the middle bench. I get her pants off next, lifting her enough to work them down her legs along with her underwear. Her boots thump to the floor.
Then she’s naked across my lap on the bench, knees bracketing my hips, the heat of her center pressed against the hard line of my cock still trapped behind my zipper.
The contrast is filthy and perfect, her skin glowing warm while the windows are sealed in ice, the heater humming, the whole mountain shut down around us.
I ease her back just enough to get my mouth on her, one arm bracing her spine. One hand cups her breast, thumb brushing the tight peak of her nipple while I suck the other into my mouth. She gasps, hips jerking. I switch sides, slow and thorough, until she’s squirming.
I lay her back along the bench, one hand under her lower back, the other guiding her thighs open. The vinyl’s warm from the heater. I go to my knees on the floor between the seats. There’s just enough room, and the position puts me exactly where I want to be.
Her knees fall wide. One heel presses into the seat cushion, the other rests against my shoulder. The first long, slow drag of my tongue up the seam of her is pure heat. She’s already wet, slick against my mouth, and the small broken sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
I keep her open with my hands on the insides of her thighs, thumbs stroking the soft skin there while I work her with my mouth.
Long, firm licks first, then tighter circles around her clit, then the soft suction of my lips closing over her while two fingers ease inside.
She’s tight—so fucking tight—and the way she clenches around me makes my pulse pound in my ears.
I curl my fingers, finding the spot that makes her thighs shake, and keep my tongue steady.
Her hands fist in my hair. The rig creaks under us. Snow hisses against the sealed windows. I look up the length of her body and watch her fall apart—head tipped back, mouth open, the prettiest flush spreading down her chest.
When she comes, it’s quiet but whole-body, pulsing hard around my fingers, a high soft cry that I swallow against her skin. I stay with her through it, gentling my mouth, working her down until the tremors ease.
Only then do I take my own clothes off. Boots, pants, everything. Naked in the cab of a snowed-in rig with the storm locked outside and her looking at me like I’m the only solid thing left in the world.
I pull her back into my lap, knees spread wide over my hips. The head of my cock notches against her entrance, slick and hot. I hold still.
“Last chance,” I say against her mouth. “You want this?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Please.”
I push in slowly, inch by careful inch. The stretch makes her breath catch. I feel every tight flutter of her body trying to take me. My hands grip her hips, steadying her, giving her time.
“Easy, baby. Breathe. You’re doing so good for me.”
I keep going, feeding her the rest inch by inch.
She’s tight as fuck—hot, slick, gripping me so hard I have to grit my teeth just to keep from shoving the rest of the way in one go.
Every bit deeper makes her walls flutter around me, wet and greedy, and the sound of it fills the quiet cab.
She whimpers, a high little broken noise, fingers digging into my shoulders.
“Fuck—Cash—“
“I’ve got you. Just take it.” I work the rest of the way in slowly until I’m finally seated all the way inside her, buried to the hilt in that perfect wet heat.
I go still. The emotional weight of it hits harder than the physical—it’s the first time in four years I’ve let anyone’s weight onto my rope on purpose.
She’s so tight around me, I can feel every pulse of her heartbeat.
My cock throbs deep inside her, and I have to breathe through my teeth.
“You’re perfect,” I tell her, voice rough. “My girl. Look at you, taking every inch of me. Just stay with me.”
She nods, shaky, eyes glassy. A soft, needy moan slips out of her when I roll my hips once, just testing. The drag of her cunt along my cock is filthy—hot and silky and so fucking wet it makes a slick sound every time I move.
I start slowly. Deep rolls of my hips, letting her feel every thick inch sliding out and then punching back in.
The rig rocks faintly with us. Outside the storm seals us in, but inside there’s only the wet slap of skin on skin, the filthy sound of her body taking me, and the soft, helpless noises she can’t keep in.
“Jesus, listen to that,” I growl against her mouth. “Hear how wet you are for me? You’re soaking my cock, baby. Such a good girl.”
She gasps when I drive in harder, a high broken “ah—“ that turns into a moan when I grind deep and stay there for a second, letting her feel how full she is. My thumb finds her clit again, still swollen and sensitive from my mouth, and I circle it in tight, filthy little strokes while I fuck her.
“That’s it. Take it. Let me hear you.”
She does. Soft, desperate sounds every time I fill her—little punched-out moans, shaky breaths, my name broken on her tongue. Her nails scrape down my back. Her cunt squeezes me like she’s trying to keep me inside her forever.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” I tell her, voice low and dirty. “So tight. So wet. This pretty little pussy was made for me, wasn’t it?”
She’s close fast—still sensitive, still shaking from the first orgasm. I feel the flutter start, the way she tightens around my cock in rhythmic pulses.
“That’s it. Come for me again. Come all over my cock like a good girl. Let me feel you.”
She breaks with a sharp, broken cry of my name, clenching hard around me—hot, rhythmic, milking me so perfectly I can’t hold back.
The second her pleasure peaks, I follow, hips slamming deep as the release rips through me.
I bury myself to the root and come hard, thick pulses spilling deep inside her while she keeps contracting around me, both of us shaking.
The storm howls against the glass. The heater ticks. And nothing else in the world exists except the two of us naked and locked together in a stranded rig on a closed mountain pass, my cock still throbbing inside her as I fill her up.
I hold her through it, arms wrapped tight, mouth pressed to her temple, breathing her in.
After, we don’t move.
The storm’s still going out there, every window packed white and the heater ticking its slow rhythm, and I’ve got her tucked against me across the bench with my jacket over the both of us.
Her breathing’s gone slow and even. One of her hands is still open on my chest like she set it down to make sure I was staying and forgot to take it back.
I’ve spent four years learning how to leave a place before it can matter.
I’ve got a truck in a lower lot and a season half booked and a whole life built on being gone by the time the lifts spin.
And I am lying in a stopped rig in the middle of a closed pass, snowed in with nowhere to run to and no want to run.
For the first time since I carried Craig off a mountain, being still doesn’t feel like the thing that’s going to destroy me.
It feels like the first place I’ve stood that I don’t want to leave.
“You went quiet,” she says into the dark. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere.” I tighten my arm around her. “That’s the whole point. I’m not anywhere else. I’m right here.”
She’s quiet a second. Then the radio crackles, low, Base checking in—no change, wind’s not laying down, sit tight—and I feel her go stiff against me at the sound of it. Just for a breath. Then she settles back down and I tell myself I imagined it.
I didn’t imagine it.
But first light’s still hours off, and she’s warm against my side, and I let myself have the hours.
I’ve earned every one. I put my mouth to the top of her head and I close my eyes and I stay.
Outside, the storm keeps every road in this town shut, but I’ve never in my life been so grateful for a thing that won’t let me go anywhere.