Chapter 10: Midnight Confessions
The shirt smelled like him. Stone buried her nose in the collar as she crept down the back stairs, the worn cotton of Erik’s dress shirt swallowing her frame, the tails brushing her bare thighs. It was the one he’d worn to work two days ago, plucked from the laundry basket before her mother could take it. His scent—spice, clean sweat, and something uniquely male—wrapped around her like a second skin.
The house was a tomb. Her mother had taken a sleeping pill after a migraine; she would be out cold. Stone’s own body still hummed with the memory of him, a low-grade fever that sleep wouldn’t touch. The soreness was a welcome ghost. She needed more.
The garage door groaned softly as she slipped inside, the sound swallowed by the vast, dark space. She flicked the old overhead bulb; it buzzed to life, casting a jaundiced, flickering glow over the concrete floor and the clutter of projects he never finished. His sedan, a sleek black thing, sat in the center like a sleeping beast.
She opened the passenger door. The leather upholstery was cold against the backs of her thighs as she slid in. She didn’t buckle up. Instead, she turned, kneeling on the seat to face the driver’s side, then slowly reclined it until it was nearly flat. The position felt daring, obscene. She arranged herself, the shirt falling open, not bothering to cover herself. The cool air from the garage kissed her nipples, made them peak into tight, aching buds. She spread her legs, letting her knees fall wide apart in the expanse of the passenger seat, the center console a hard ridge near her hip.
And she waited.
The fluorescent light buzzed like an insect. A drip from the sink faucet echoed. Time stretched, thin and brittle. What if he didn’t come? What if he’d decided, in the clear light of day, that she was a mistake he couldn’t afford? The doubt was a cold knot in her stomach, warring with the heat pooling lower down.
Then, the side door opened.
Erik stepped in, dressed in jeans and a tight grey t-shirt, a cardboard box of old files in his arms. He was heading for the storage shelves. He took two steps before his peripheral vision caught the shape in his car. He stopped dead. The box hit the concrete with a dull thud, papers spilling out.
He turned fully. His eyes locked on her.
She saw the struggle play out across his face in the uneven light—shock, then a flicker of anger, then a raw, hungry appraisal that darkened his blue eyes to near black. His gaze traveled from her disheveled red hair fanned on the headrest, down the open shirt and her bare breasts, to the blatant offering between her spread thighs. She was already wet; she could feel the slickness, see the faint glistening in the dim amber light.
“Jesus Christ, Stone.” His voice was stripped bare.
“You weren’t in your office,” she said, her own voice steadier than she felt.
“Your mother—”
“Is doped on Ambien. She’s gone. It’s just us.” She lifted a hand, trailed her own fingers lightly over her stomach, down through the coppery curls. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about your mouth.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He took a step toward the car. Then another. He wrenched the driver’s door open, the interior light flooding the space, harsh and revealing. The sight of her seemed to punch the air from his lungs. Up close, he could see everything: the flushed, swollen lips of her cunt, the way her inner muscles gave a helpless little clench under his scrutiny.
“Fuck, babygirl,” he groaned, the last of his resistance crumbling. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
He didn’t kiss her. He shoved her legs wider apart, the leather squeaking in protest. He climbed into the driver’s seat, a clumsy, frantic movement, and then his big hands were on her thighs, hauling her toward him by her hips, pulling her right to the edge of the seat until her ass was nearly off it. The console dug into her side, a sharp, real pain that anchored her in the madness.
He dropped his head between her legs.
The first hot, wet stroke of his tongue from her entrance to her clit was so direct, so utterly demanding, that she cried out, her hands flying to tangle in his hair. He didn’t tease. He feasted. He licked into her with broad, flat laps, then zeroed in on her clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.
“Oh god, Erik… right there…” she babbled, her hips coming off the seat, trying to grind against his face.
One of his hands slid under her ass, lifting her, giving him better access. The other hand came up, two fingers pushing into her mouth. “Suck,” he ordered, his voice muffled against her flesh. She obeyed, swirling her tongue around his fingers, coating them in her saliva. He pulled them out, shining wet, and without pause, drove them deep inside her cunt alongside his tongue.
The double penetration, the rough scrape of his stubble on her tender inner thighs, the filthy, wet sounds filling the car—it was too much. Her orgasm built not as a wave but as a sudden, seismic rupture. It tore through her with a violence that arched her back, a raw scream strangling in her throat as her cunt clamped down rhythmically on his invading fingers.
He rode it out, drinking from her, his fingers crooking inside her to milk every last spasm. When she finally collapsed back, shuddering, he pulled back. His lips and chin were slick with her. He looked feral.
He unbuttoned his jeans, freeing his cock, which was thick and rigid, the head flushed an angry red. He was beyond words. He shoved her knees up toward her chest, folding her almost in half in the confined space. The shirt fell completely open. He positioned himself, the blunt head nudging at her soaked, stretched entrance.
“Look at me,” he gritted out.
She forced her dazed eyes open, meeting his. There was no tenderness there, only a consuming fire.
He thrust in. One deep, brutal stroke that buried him to the root. The car rocked on its suspension. She gasped, the fullness breathtaking, the lingering sensitivity from her climax making every inch of him a live wire inside her.
He set a ruthless pace from the start, each piston-like drive knocking a choked sound from her lips. The confines of the car amplified everything—the slap of his hips against her ass, their ragged breathing fogging the windows, the creak of the leather seat. He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the headrest behind her, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
“This what you wanted?” he panted, his breath hot on her face. “Huh? To be my dirty little secret in the garage? To have me fuck my come from last night deeper into you?”
“Yes! God, yes!” she cried, wrapping her legs around his waist, taking him deeper, accepting the punishment.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering for a second as pleasure gripped him. “Still so tight even after I’ve wrecked you twice. You greedy slut. You’ll take it all, won’t you?”
She could only nod, her world reduced to the driving friction of his cock and the wrecked look on his face. He was close. She could see it in the strain of his neck cords, the way his thrusts became shorter, harder, more erratic.
“Come with me,” he demanded, his voice breaking. “Come on my cock. Now.”
As if commanded, a second, sharper climax detonated within her, triggered by the raw need in his voice and the exquisite friction. She convulsed around him, her inner muscles fluttering in a frantic, milking rhythm.
It tipped him over the edge. With a guttural shout he muffled against the curve of her neck, he slammed home one final time and held, pulsing deep inside her, his hot release flooding her in thick, endless waves.
For a long minute, the only sound was their heaving breaths and the persistent buzz of the light. The air in the car was thick, humid with sex. He slumped over her, his weight a comforting prison. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A warm trickle followed onto the leather seat.
He didn’t move. His forehead rested against her shoulder. She could feel the rapid hammer of his heart against her chest.
“Daddy,” she whispered, her hand coming up to stroke his sweat-damp hair.
He flinched as if burned. Then, with a deliberate slowness that felt like a dismissal, he pushed himself off her. He straightened his clothes with quick, efficient movements, not looking at her. His face was a closed door.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of the heat from moments before. He grabbed a rag from his workbench, tossed it onto her stomach. “And get back inside before she wakes up.”
He turned, collected the spilled files with sharp, angry motions, and left without another glance, closing the garage door behind him with a firm, final click.
Stone lay in the ruined silence, the cold creeping in. The rag smelled of oil and gasoline. She was covered in him, stuffed with him, and he had walked away as if she were just another mess in his garage to be dealt with. The victory of luring him here curdled into something hollow and sharp. She sat up slowly, the ache inside her now a cold, lonely throb. The flickering light threw grotesque, moving shadows on the wall—shapes that felt like accusations. She had gotten what she wanted. She just hadn't understood the cost.