Chapter 3: Backseat Backdoor
The crunch of Kenny’s tires faded into the muffled thump of Abby’s own frantic heartbeat echoing in her ears. Silence rushed back in, thick and suffocating after the razor-edge tension. Only the Ford’s cooling engine ticked, a metronome counting the seconds of their reprieve. Colt remained rigid against the door frame, his knuckles bone-white on the metal, his cock still lodged deep in Abby’s throat. She gagged silently, tears leaking hot trails down her temples, mixing with the dust on the floor mat.
Then, like a puppet released, Colt slumped. He withdrew sharply, the sudden emptiness making Abby gasp for air, her throat raw. Saliva slicked her chin, dripping onto the worn fabric beneath her. Before she could even register the cool air hitting her damp skin, his hands were on her – rough, urgent – hauling her bodily out of the cramped, gritty footwell and back onto the cracked vinyl seat. She landed hard, jarring her spine against the passenger door.
"Jesus Christ," Colt breathed, his voice thick, ragged. He wasn't looking at her face. His eyes, dark and hungry in the dim dashboard glow, raked over her disheveled state – the crumpled sundress bunched around her waist, her bare legs scraped from the footwell, the glistening trail on her chin. His hand shot out, fingers tangling possessively in her hair again, pulling her head towards him. "Need to fuck you, Abs. Now."
The raw demand, the sheer physicality of it after the near-discovery, sent a conflicting jolt through Abby – a flare of answering heat warring violently with a surge of panic. She pushed against his chest, her palms flat against the hard muscle beneath his t-shirt. "Colt, no!" Her voice was a hoarse whisper, strained from recent use. "I can't."
He froze, his grip tightening fractionally. "Can't?" The word was low, dangerous. His thumb brushed roughly over her bottom lip, wiping away saliva. "Seemed pretty damn capable a minute ago."
"Not that," Abby hissed, pulling her head back, trying to create space in the stifling cab. The scent of oil, leather, and sex hung heavy. "I mean... I can't... get pregnant." She swallowed, the motion painful. "I'm not on the pill."
Colt stared at her, his expression unreadable in the shadows. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face, devoid of humor. "Seriously? You and Kenny...?"
Abby looked away, shame heating her cheeks. "Yeah. We... we were waiting. For marriage." The words sounded absurd, childish, spoken in the aftermath of what they’d just done, hidden beneath bleachers Kenny had walked past moments ago.
Colt let out a short, sharp bark of laughter that held no mirth. "Waiting." He shook his head, his gaze dropping pointedly to her exposed thighs, then back to her face. "Right. Well, that’s fuckin’ adorable." He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear. "But it ain't stoppin' me tonight." His hand slid down her side, fingers digging into her hip, pulling her closer across the bench seat. The worn vinyl squeaked in protest.
Panic flared brighter. "Colt, stop! I mean it!" She shoved harder, her nails digging into his arm. "There's no way!"
He paused, studying her face, the genuine fear in her eyes. Then, slowly, deliberately, a different kind of intensity settled over him. The predatory hunger shifted, replaced by a knowing, almost cruel calculation. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "Remember my twenty-second birthday, Abby?"
The question hit her like a physical blow. Thirteen years. High school felt like another lifetime. She blinked, confused. "What?"
"Twenty-second birthday," Colt repeated, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that slithered under her skin. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, then drifted down, feather-light, over the pulse hammering in her throat. "Out at Miller’s Pond? After the bonfire?" His eyes locked onto hers, holding her captive. "You remember what you gave me?"
The memory slammed into Abby with visceral force. The sticky summer heat. The smell of woodsmoke and cheap beer clinging to their clothes. The nervous, exhilarating terror as Colt, older, impossibly cool, the star quarterback home from college, had led her away from the crowd into the whispering darkness by the water’s edge. His hands, then too, urgent and demanding. His voice, husky with promise. ‘Trust me, Abby. Just trust me.’ The sharp, shocking pain that stole her breath, followed by a bewildering, overwhelming wave of sensation she hadn't known existed. The feeling of being utterly claimed, possessed, in a way that felt terrifyingly final.
Her anal virginity.
She’d given it to him that night, a secret buried deep beneath layers of time and other choices. A secret Kenny would never fathom. The heat flooding Abby’s face now wasn't just shame; it was the rekindled echo of that forbidden thrill, the illicit power of being the only one who knew this part of Colt, the only one he’d taken it from.
Colt saw the recognition dawn, saw the flush spread down her neck. His smirk widened, triumphant. He leaned closer still, his lips brushing her ear. "Yeah," he breathed, the word vibrating against her skin. "You remember." His hand slid lower, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her sundress, tracing the curve of her hip, then dipping lower, seeking the heat between her legs. "Still got that gift for me, Abby? Or did Kenny get that too?"
The crude question, the deliberate violation of her relationship with Kenny, should have repulsed her. It did. But beneath the disgust, beneath the fear, the memory Colt had unearthed pulsed like a live wire. It tangled with the adrenaline still coursing through her from the near-discovery, with the lingering taste of him in her mouth, with the desperate, reckless need that always flared when Colt Bennett looked at her like this – like she was something stolen, something dangerous and delicious.
His fingers found her core, slick and ready despite her protests. He pressed against her entrance, not entering, just applying pressure, a silent, undeniable question. His other hand remained tangled in her hair, holding her gaze. The dashboard lights cast long, distorted shadows on his face, making him look both familiar and utterly alien.
Abby stared into those dark, demanding eyes. She saw Kenny’s trusting face superimposed for a fleeting second. Felt the cool night air through the cracked window. Smelled the oil, the leather, the sweat, the sex. Felt the phantom ache of that long-ago birthday gift.
The war inside her raged – guilt, fear, loyalty crashing against a tide of pure, addictive sensation and the terrifying allure of the forbidden. Colt’s finger pressed harder, insistent. His breath hitched, waiting.
Abby closed her eyes. A single, shuddering breath escaped her lips. When she opened them again, the defiance was gone, replaced by a surrender that felt like falling. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, raw and thick with everything she couldn't name.
"Do it."