This is so exciting!
I didn’t start dating until I was in college, so I was older by the time I’d lost my virginity; none of those experiences, though new, were as exhilarating as what’s happening with Tripp right now.
The best part is? I have a feeling this is new to him, too.
His body is monolithic, taking up most of the back seat, his thick thighs spread, offering me little choice but to climb onto his lap. Straddle him. Our mouths fuse, naturally—no hesitation, already seeking their rhythm.
Confident that no one can see us—not with the overcast sky, mature shade trees lining the sidewalk, and the truck’s dark-tinted windows—my fingers roam the buttons of my shirt, plucking each one free, one at a time.
My head hits the ceiling. “Ouch!”
Tripp chuckles before his mouth latches onto the skin of my collarbone and he groans, hands caging my waist. “Fuck you smell good.”
Thank heavens for that—I didn’t wear deodorant this morning.
Or like, any morning? Ha ha.
He doesn’t seem to give a shit; I could probably be covered in crap and the man’s hands would still be all over my body—roaming my upper torso, eyes heavy-lidded from lust.
“So fucking pretty,” he mutters while his fingers find the clasp of my bra, the lacy one I threw on last minute that didn’t seem practical but which I’m grateful for.
Vanity has its rewards.
He appreciates my efforts with the palms of his hands, then lips, tongue and teeth nipping at my nipples. I could stay like this forever, letting him lavish my body with kisses…
My hips slowly begin doing the only thing they can do in a situation like this: they grind. Round and round on the hard erection straining at the front of his jeans.
God that must be uncomfortable. No room for it to roam.
I sit back, still kneeling over him, creating a gap between our bodies so my fingers can work the fly of his pants. Zipper. Ease it down, moving off him momentarily so he can maneuver them down his hips and free that glorious dick.
I hike my skirt up. Pull my thong aside, then climb back on.
Bury my face in the crook of his neck as I inch down over him, easing on little by little by little, breathing heavy the whole way.
It’s a strange effect, our position inconvenient and scrunched, the cab of the truck now sweltering from our body heat, windows fogging up. The space is cramped. Awkward.
So good.
I move up and down over him, doing all the work while his hands brace my hips, helping them travel.
I am determined to come.
I want him to come, too—desperately.
It’s work. It’s tiring. It’s hot and sweaty and our movements are limited but we do it, my lips pressed to the side of his damp neck while I rotate my pelvis to the point of no return.
Tripp slaps my ass and it feels like a five-star review as his body jerks.
What are the odds that we come at the same time, twice?
Panting, I flop onto him, resting against this chest.
“Do you happen to, um, have a rag or something?” Not to be gross and disgusting, but I can already feel, uh, everything dripping out my, um…you know…and I could die.
How am I supposed to clean this up?
“Shit, we didn’t wear a condom.” He pauses. “You can use my shirt.”
“I am not using your shirt!” As much as I want to clean up this mess, I’m not doing it with his clothes. Or mine. “Paper towels?”
Tripp shakes his head. No paper towels. No wet wipes. No tissues.
Not a single Starbucks or McDonald’s napkin in the glovebox like most normal humans have.
I glance around the cab, desperate for something to wipe this mess up with.
Okay fine—I would settle for a gym sock. “Gym sock?”
Tripp perks up. “Yeah, I do have a gym sock. It’s in the duffle on the floor.” He bends forward to unzip it, rooting around and recovering a white sports sock. Shoves it toward me.
“Thanks.”
I cannot let him watch me stuff this sock in my thong as a panty liner!
A knock interrupts, scaring the shit out of me and causing me to scream, then cover my breasts by crossing my arms.
There’s a police officer at the door, and I let out a horrified gasp as he stands with his back to the truck, rapping on the window with his knuckle over his shoulder, no longer peering inside.
Oh my god oh my god OHMYGOD.
Oh my god.
No.
This is not happening.
Jesus take the wheel and get me the hell out of here.
I fumble for something to cover my face with—his hoodie perhaps? Crawl under the seat maybe?
I want a sinkhole to swallow me now, cowering in the back seat as Tripp tries yanking up.
“Sir,” the officer outside is saying, “I’m going to need you both to step outside.”
Both of us?!
I shield my face with a hand as I die inside, Tripp beginning a long string of curses I don’t dare repeat, clearing his throat and reaching for his ball cap. He lowers the brim to cover his forehead. Unfortunately, there is no disguising this man—plus, there’s no doubt the cop has run the plates and already knew exactly who he was before approaching the vehicle.
Shit, shit, shit.
Tripp cracks the back door open. “Is that really necessary?”
“Sir.” The cop shifts on his heels. “It’s the middle of the day and you’re engaging in a sexual act in a residential area. I’m going to need you both to step outside.” He continues to be matter-of-fact and blunt, straight-faced and serious, hat shielding his eyes and his agitated expression.
He’s just doing his job, and here Tripp is, arguing with him.
“You don’t recognize me?” Tripp has the balls to ask the cop through the gap in the door, the cop who’s watching every move we’re making so we don’t do something shady. “I play for the Blues.”
Oh my god!
“Good for you.” The cop’s expression is blank. “I ran your plates and they’re clean, but I’m going to need some form of identification from yourself and your companion.”
Your companion.
As if I’m a…a…
Paid escort.
“If you ran my plates and know who I am, why do you need to see my identification?”
This police officer isn’t playing around, leveling Tripp with a blank stare, raising his brows and clenching his jaw.
“I need to see valid identification with your face on it, sir.”
I smack my date on the arm, muttering, “Stop arguing, jeez.”
“Okay, but why does he need us outside? We were just fucking, Jesus.”
Fumbling with my top, I glance at the back window then out the front, scanning the street for photographers, dreading the moment I have to step outside onto the sidewalk.
“Um, officer?” I spy my purse in the front seat, the one with my wallet and ID in it. “My bag is on the floor—can I grab it?”
Yes.
When we’re both curbside, we’re separated, Tripp in front of the vehicle, me in the back, the officer making his way over to speak to me.
“Ms. Westbrooke, how do you know this person?”
“Um…we’re dating.” I think? I mean, are we actually dating dating, or do I tell the cop we’ve only been on a few dates and so far it’s nothing serious? Shoot.