Chapter 7: The cab
The silence in the cab was a thick, new thing. It hummed louder than the engine, filled with everything they hadn’t said. Will watched the white lines of the highway bleed into one another, her body still humming with a strange, liquid warmth. She could feel the ghost of his hands in her hair, the weight of his surrender.
Her own hand rested on the seat between them. She looked at it, then at his. His grip on the wheel was tight, knuckles white, as if holding onto the familiar steel was the only thing keeping him anchored.
Without letting herself think, she moved. She picked up his heavy, calloused hand from the gearshift and placed it firmly on her thigh, high up, her jean shorts rough under his palm.
He flinched, but didn’t pull away. His gaze stayed locked on the road. “Will…”
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she said, her voice low. “About you.”
His thumb moved, a slow, involuntary stroke against the denim. The air in the cab crackled. He finally glanced at her, his eyes dark and full of a storm she wanted to drown in. “Me neither,” he grunted, the admission seeming to cost him.
That was all the permission she needed. She guided his hand higher, until his fingers were pressing against the heated center of her. A sharp, shaky breath escaped him. With a deftness that surprised her, he popped the button on her shorts, slid down the zipper. His fingers, rough from years of work, found their way inside her underwear.
She gasped, her head falling back against the seat as he touched her. It was nothing like her own hurried, furtive touches in her bedroom back home. This was slow, deliberate. Knowing. He worked her with a quiet intensity that matched his driving, his focus split between the wet heat of her and the endless road ahead. Her hips lifted to meet his rhythm, a soft, helpless sound catching in her throat.
“My turn,” she breathed, her own hands fumbling for his belt. He didn’t stop her. He just watched her, his expression a mixture of awe and sheer, unadulterated want as she freed him. She took him in her hand, stroking him in time with the circling pressure of his fingers, feeling him grow harder, thicker. His breathing hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
“Christ, kid,” he muttered, his voice strained.
“I told you,” she panted, her movements becoming more frantic. “Not a kid.”
In one fluid, reckless motion, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and underwear and pushed them down, kicking them off her ankles. The cool air of the cab hit her damp skin, raising goosebumps. She climbed across the console, the gearshift digging into her leg, and straddled him.
“Will, for God’s sake, I’m driving,” he said, but his hands were already on her hips, holding her, helping her.
“So drive,” she whispered, and lowered herself onto him.
He was big, and she was tight. She had to breathe through the initial stretch, a sharp, burning fullness that made her eyes water. Then she began to move. It was an awkward, rocking rhythm at first, constrained by the confined space and the fact that he was still piloting eighty thousand pounds of metal down the interstate. But it was also the most alive she had ever felt.
One of his hands stayed on her hip, guiding her, while the other found its way under her t-shirt, cupping her breast, his thumb rasping over her nipple. She rode him, her hands braced on his shoulders, her face buried in the rough fabric of his shirt, smelling diesel and him. The world outside—the passing cars, the sprawling fields, the distant mountains—became a blurred painting. The only real things were the deep, driving thrusts inside her and the ragged sound of their breathing mingling with the country twang from the radio.
She felt the tension coiling in her own belly, a familiar pressure building to a breaking point. Beneath her, his movements became more urgent, his grip on her hip tightening. “Will,” he growled, a warning and a plea.
It was enough. The world shattered into a silent, blinding white. Her body clenched around him, wave after wave of a pleasure so intense it was almost painful. With a choked cry, he followed her over the edge, his whole body shuddering as he spilled deep inside her.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined and breathless, the truck humming steadily beneath them. Then, with a soft sigh, she slid off him, collapsing onto the passenger seat in a boneless heap. She pulled her knees up to her chest, feeling exposed and utterly spent.
“Fuck,” she breathed, a slow, dazed smile spreading across her face. “What a ride.”
Gus said nothing. He adjusted himself, zipped his jeans with a sharp, efficient motion. His jaw was tight. He reached out, not looking at her, and pulled a faded flannel shirt from behind the seat. He tossed it into her lap.
“Put that on,” he said, his voice back to its usual gravel, but with a new, unreadable edge.
She did, wrapping the oversized shirt around herself. It smelled like him, of sweat and soap and the open road. She watched him as he drove, his profile stern in the morning light. The worn teddy bear on the dashboard seemed to stare back at her, a silent witness.
He finally spoke, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “We need to talk about what happens in Denver.”
The warmth inside her suddenly felt very fragile. The road ahead didn't seem quite so endless anymore.