Chapter 20: The Road Trip Home
The silence in the back seat was a living thing. It pulsed with the memory of what they had done, and the heavier, older memory of what they had just witnessed. The scent of grandma’s bedroom—old polish, sex, and sweat—seemed to cling to Marcus’s skin, a phantom perfume Sarah could detect every time he shifted beside her.
Their parents’ conversation from the front was a distant murmur, a script of normalcy about grocery lists and tomorrow’s weather. It was white noise against the roaring in their ears.
Sarah’s hand lay palm-up on the leather seat between them. Marcus’s little finger brushed against hers. A spark. Then his whole hand covered hers, their fingers lacing tight, knuckles white. His skin was fever-warm. Through the connection, she felt a fine, constant tremor.
She turned her head slowly, looking out her window at the blur of darkening trees. Her other hand moved, almost of its own volition, to rest on his denim-clad thigh. She felt the hard muscle beneath, the heat. Her fingers began to trace idle circles, moving incrementally higher with each pass.
He swallowed, the sound audible over the road hum. His own free hand came to rest on her knee, then slid under the hem of her summer skirt. His touch was tentative at first, a questioning brush against her inner thigh. She parted her legs a fraction, an invitation.
His fingers found her bare, just as he’d hoped, just as he’d dreamed. She was soaked. The slippery heat of her made him groan softly, the sound lost under the engine’s drone. He looked at her profile, the set of her jaw, the way her blonde hair hid her expression.
She leaned in then, her mouth so close to his ear he could feel the damp heat of her breath. The words were a whisper, a secret blade slicing through the pretense.
“I can still taste Grandma on your tongue,” she breathed. Her voice was low, husky, devoid of its usual light melody. It was a statement of fact, possessive and dark.
His breath hitched. His fingers, buried in her wetness, pressed deeper. She gasped, her hips lifting off the seat to meet his touch.
“Sarah,” he managed, a choked syllable.
“Shhh.” Her hand on his thigh clenched, then slid decisively to his lap. She palmed the hard, thick line of his cock through his jeans, squeezing ruthlessly. “I need you. Now.”
The casual, front-seat conversation continued. “—think the Thompsons are coming for dinner on Saturday?” his father asked.
“I’ll have to check,” his mother replied, her voice oddly calm, almost melodic.
Meanwhile, Sarah’s fingers were a flurry of frantic movement at his belt. The buckle gave a soft click. The zipper hissed down. She yanked his jeans and boxers just low enough to free him. His cock sprang up, thick and flushed in the dim, moving light, already beading with moisture at the tip.
“Watch them,” Sarah commanded, her green eyes glinting as she glanced toward the front seats. “Don’t look away.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She bent, her long hair falling like a curtain between them and the world. Her mouth, so recently uttering those filthy, true words, engulfed him in a single, slick, swallowing motion.
“Fuck!” The curse was torn from him, a harsh gasp he stifled by biting his own lip. He locked his eyes on the back of his father’s head, on the familiar curve of his mom’s shoulder. The surreal normalcy of it made his brain short-circuit. His mother’s ass was still tender, his cum probably still inside her, and here was his sister, her throat working around his dick as their parents discussed potluck dishes.
Her mouth was infernal. She took him deep, her nose burying in the coarse hair at his base, her throat relaxing to accommodate his full length. She pulled back slowly, her tongue dragging along the throbbing vein underneath, then plunged down again, setting a relentless, wet rhythm.
His hand flew to her head, tangling in her blonde silk, holding her not with gentleness but with a desperate, anchoring grip. He began to fuck her mouth in short, helpless thrusts, his hips bucking up off the seat. The wet, gagging sounds were obscenely loud in his ears. He was sure they must hear. He was sure the whole world could hear.
“Marcus,” his father said suddenly.
Marcus froze, his cock buried in Sarah’s throat. She went still, her mouth a tight, perfect sheath.
“Yeah, Dad?” His voice was strangled.
“You quiet back there? You okay?”
“Fine,” Marcus rasped. “Just… tired.”
“Long day,” his mother said, and in her tone, he heard a universe of knowing. A blessing and a curse.
The moment passed. Sarah’s mouth began to move again, with renewed vigor, a hungry, punishing suction. Her free hand crept between her own legs, finding where his fingers had been, and she began to rub frantic circles against her clit as she sucked him.
The dual sensation—the hot, rhythmic suction on his cock and the knowledge of her touching herself—was too much. The pressure coiling in his balls snapped.
“I’m coming,” he hissed, a frantic warning. “Gonna come, Sarah—!”
She didn’t pull away. She took him deeper, her throat opening, and he lost all control. With a ragged, stifled groan that was part agony, part ecstasy, he erupted. Thick, hot pulses of cum shot directly down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, each gulp a deliberate, milking pull that drained him utterly. She didn’t miss a drop.
When he was spent, twitching, oversensitive, she released him with a soft, wet pop. She sat up slowly, smoothly, wiping the back of her hand across her glistening lips. She turned to look at him, her eyes black in the gloom. A serene, dangerous smile played on her mouth.
“That,” she murmured, her voice ragged from use, “was just the beginning.”