Chapter 5: The Oak Tree
The morning air was cold enough to bite. Beth sat in her car with the engine running, the heater blowing lukewarm air against her face, but she couldn't feel it. She couldn't feel much of anything. Her hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles white, and she stared at the big oak tree without really seeing it.
Tuesday. She'd told herself she wouldn't come. She'd told herself that what happened in that crumbling apartment was a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a single moment of weakness she could bury and forget. She'd gone home and showered. She'd stood under the hot water until her skin turned pink, scrubbing at herself like she could wash away the memory of his hands, his mouth, the rough sound of his voice telling her to take what she needed.
But it hadn't worked.
She'd lain in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of him between her thighs. And in the morning, when Victor had walked past her in the kitchen without a word, she'd felt something crack open inside her. Something she didn't have a name for.
Now she was here. Parked under the oak tree, the same spot where he had claimed she would meet hughes every tuesdays and thursdays.
She didn't trust Hughes. She wasn't stupid. But she couldn't stay away. And that terrified her more than anything.
She checked her phone. 7:42 AM. The school run started in an hour.
A knock on the passenger window made her jump.
Hughes stood there, hands in the pockets of his worn leather jacket, breath fogging in the cold air. He didn't smile. He just looked at her through the glass, patient and still, like he had all the time in the world.
Beth unlocked the door.
He slid into the passenger seat, bringing the cold in with him, bringing the smell of cigarettes and something else. Something sharp and masculine. The car suddenly felt smaller. His presence filled it, pressed against her, made it hard to breathe.
"You came," he said.
"Don't sound so surprised." Beth's voice was flat. She kept her eyes on the windshield, on the bare branches of the oak tree. "You knew I would."
"Yeah." Hughes turned in his seat, his body angled toward hers. "I knew you would."
Beth's jaw tightened. "I'm not that kind of woman."
"What kind is that?"
"The kind who—" She stopped. Swallowed. "The kind who does this. Who sneaks around and lies and gives blowjobs in parked cars."
"So which kind are you? The kind who wants something for herself?" Hughes asked. "The kind who takes what she needs instead of waiting for someone to give it to her?"
Beth turned to look at him. Her eyes were bright, fierce.
Beth's hand shot out, but Hughes caught her wrist before she could slap him. His grip was firm, not painful, but inescapable. He held her there, her hand hovering in the air between them, and his eyes never left hers.
"Hit me if you want," he said. "But it won't change anything."
Beth's chest was heaving. She could feel the heat of his hand around her wrist, the calluses on his palm, the steady beat of his pulse against her fingers. And she could feel herself giving in. Again.
"Let me go," she whispered.
Hughes released her wrist. But he didn't move away. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "You've been thinking about me. Since Monday. You've been thinking about what I did to you, and you can't stop."
Beth didn't answer. Because it was true. She'd been thinking about it all night. The weight of him on top of her, the way he'd flipped her over and driven into her, the way he'd made her scream.
"I was thinking about you too," Hughes said. "The taste of you. The way you said my name." His hand moved to her thigh, resting there, heavy and warm. "The way you came."
"Stop," Beth said, but it came out weak, breathless.
"I don't want to stop." Hughes's hand slid higher, his fingers brushing the hem of her dress. "I want to feel you come apart again. I want to watch your face when you forget everything else."
Beth's eyes were closed. Her breath was coming fast and shallow, and she could feel herself getting wet. The shame of it, the need, the desperate hunger coiling low in her belly.
"This is wrong," she whispered.
"I know," Hughes said. "That's why you want it."
He leaned in and kissed her, and Beth broke. Her hands came up to grip his jacket, pulling him closer, and she kissed him back with a ferocity that surprised her. She tasted the coffee on his breath, the smoke, the something else that was just him, and she wanted more.
Hughes didn't hesitate. He reached down and pressed the lever on her seat, and it reclined with a soft click. Beth gasped as her back hit the seat, and Hughes was over her, his body covering hers, his mouth trailing down her neck.
"Not here," she breathed. "Someone could see—"
"Let them," Hughes said. His hand slid up her thigh, pushing her dress higher. "Let them see."
Beth's protest died in her throat. She felt his fingers find the edge of her underwear, felt him tug them aside, felt the cool air against her wetness.
"Fuck," she hissed. "You can't just—"
"I can," Hughes said. "I am."
He knelt between her legs, pulling her to the edge of the seat, and when his mouth found her, Beth's head fell back against the headrest. His tongue was hot and flat, dragging up her slit with a kind of desperate hunger that made her hips buck off the seat.
"Jesus," she gasped. "Hughes—"
He didn't answer. He just kept eating her, his tongue circling her clit, his hands gripping her thighs and spreading her wider. She could feel everything, the rough scratch of his stubble, the wet slide of his tongue, the pressure building low in her belly.
She was going to come. She could feel it cresting, rising, ready to break.
"Please," she whispered. "Please—"
Hughes slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and Beth's world went white. She came with a scream that he muffled with his hand, clamping it over her mouth as her hips bucked and shuddered against him. Her legs were shaking, her body convulsing, and she felt the orgasm rip through her like a wave, leaving her gasping and helpless.
When it finally subsided, Hughes pulled his hand away from her mouth. He looked at her, his lips slick with her, his eyes dark and satisfied, and he didn't say a word.
Beth lay there, panting, her dress bunched around her waist, her underwear twisted around her thigh. She felt hollowed out. Drained. And still, somehow, hungry.
Hughes sat back. He adjusted his jacket, reached for the door handle, and paused.
Then he was gone, the door closing with a soft click, and Beth was alone in the car with the smell of sex and the taste of her own shame. She lay there for a long time, staring at the roof of the car, feeling her heart slow its frantic beat.
She didn't know how she was going to face Maya at school pickup. She didn't know how she was going to look Victor in the eye.
But she knew he was right.
She'd come back.