She’s got me there.
But never go down without a fight. I rise from my chair, cross to where my pen landed, swipe it from the floor, all while taking a breather so that I sound like the coolest, most rational motherfucker in town when I order, “Go take care of the trash.”
This derails Stacy’s you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do speech. “I just got my nails done!”
Girl’s got a point. She’d do it if I made her, but I know from growing up in a houseful of women how ticked a lady gets if her brand new nail job chips, gets scratched, or pops off. And taking out the trash isn’t in Stacy’s job description. She should be able to use her hard-earned money to keep her nails looking nice without having to fear that it’ll go to waste when she gets to work.
Sal is walking past my doorway, headed for the mini fridge in front, probably for a water since that’s where we keep them.
“Sal!” I call. Because I wasn’t just telling Stacy to do it to punish her. It really does need to be done. “Grab the trash.” After a second, I think to tack on, “Please.”
Having heard at least the last half of the argument, Sal gapes. “Are you serious?” His eyes go to Stacy, disbelief in every part of his expression. “Shit, if I get my nails done, does that mean I don’t have to lift a finger around here anymore either?”
My sigh is ragged and loud. “Kidddds, kids. Tell you what. You two do me a favor and pretend I’m the boss around here. And Sal, I’ll send you next door for a mani. I’ll even pay for it—something I don’t do for Princess Stacy here—”
Against her will, Stacy reluctantly preens a little at being called a princess, smoothing her hair. Immediately, her hand stalls on her head, and she jerks her hand down, looking ashamed of herself for responding.
“—and then you get to be the one ogled by the groups of dudes that walk in the door. For that, I’ll take out the trash my fuckin’ self,” I finish.
Stacy turns to Sal. “Some of them might be into dick.”
Sal curls his lip at her.
I chide, “Stacy, quit cussing! Fuck!”
She gives me a look that reminds me what word Sal used.
I turn a look on him. “You too.”
Sal holds up his hands and backs away from my door. “Gonna hydrate, then I’ll do the dang trash.”
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” Stacy agrees, and sashays back to her desk where I presume Inara is still waiting. I can’t see her from here, but she hasn’t made so much as a peep since the fun started.
“I want an hour of quiet time!” I order Stacy.
“Can’t have it. There’s a group of twelve coming in thirty-five minutes.”
“Then I want thirty-five minutes of quiet time!”
“You want me to close the door?”
“I’ll close my own damn door,” I tell her, but before I make it around the desk, it’s already closing—because Inara has slipped inside with me, looking a little lost but amused.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Her tail blades fan themselves, and she gives me a chin tip that looks suspiciously like one of mine.
“Why won’t you let Stacy into the rearmost seat of her male’s transporter?” she asks, getting right to the heart of the matter for her, I guess.
“Because the only reason he’ll have her in his backseat is for nefarious reasons. Now if he has plans to cherish her, protect her, and commit to her, then that’s one thing. But he’s five minutes old, and all he thinks with is his dick.”
“How do you know this?” Inara asks, eyes bewildered.
“Because I’ve got a dick.”
Her eyes drop to my crotch, and my cock jumps. “Inara,” I bite.
Her eyes bounce up to mine again, and a deviously hot smile spreads over her mouth. “It’s dark outside.”
“It is,” I confirm, trying to tell my body to calm down. I can’t just attack Inara every time she gets me going. I’m not fifteen. I’ve learned control.
Inara licks her lips, her eyes dancing.
My dick says it has no control where she’s concerned and if I want to claim otherwise, I can speak for myself. Plus, at my age, I’m not about to waste a good hard-on and a willing woman.
“Human eyes do not see well in the dark,” Inara tells me like she wants me to verify this.
I verify it. “That’s right.”
Her gaze drops again to the front of my tenting slacks. “Maybe you could show me what happens in the back seat of cars. I am… very curious,” she admits—but she doesn’t sound like she’s curious. She sounds like she’s breathless and starving.
And so, we use my thirty remaining minutes of quiet time with me on top of her, rocking my precious, classic car hard enough to test the shocks, and fogging up the windows so thoroughly that there’s no question what’s happening inside.
It goes without saying that I've never done this before, fooling around in this car. It feels supremely dangerous, and wrong, and therefore hot as fuck.
My skin is on fire. Inara is voracious, and her purring is making my eyes cross.
Stacy’s opinion about the backseat being cramped is no joke, especially in our case, where you’re talking about a classic Mustang. We don’t even try to make it work. But even with the front seats slid all the way back to give us the maximum room on the two front buckets, it’s cramped quarters. Illustrated nicely when Inara’s horn cracks into the door window—causing a literal snaking break to etch the glass—(on any other day I’d flip my absolute shit if this car got so much as a ding, but Inara’s got her hand wrapped around my cock, so… the ghost of my grandpa surely understands. And so does the vehicle, I’m sure. Sorry, car. I’ll lovingly fix you later, and we’ll have all these memories of Inara to replay while I do...) and then her other horn gets hung up on the shoulder-rest portion of the passenger seat.
When Inara tries to tip her head to get her horn free so her neck isn’t strained, her horn slides down and gets caught between the seat and the simulated wood grain interior of the side of the car. (Yes, the ribbing on her horn is scraping the hell out of the wood grain, but again—and this is why I’ve never risked having a woman in this car before—her hand is on my dick. Thus, my dick calls the shots. And my dick does not care about cars. It doesn’t care at all. I know I will care later. I’m sure I’ll care a lot—but it will be later.)
We find a sweet position with her cheek pressed to the lip of the seat, her horns pointed towards the rear window, and her back swooped hard so that I can fit in behind her, pop the door open (turn off the fucking interior lights so no one sees!), stand outside and eat her. Cover her. Slam the door shut and ride the ever-living fuck out of her.
And freakin’ hotdamn does she smell good. Her scent gets stronger as I pound into her, her perfume driving me insane.
When we melt out like satisfied sex weasels, I help Inara fix her outfit, and I’m downright relaxed when we stroll back into the building.
Stacy takes one look at Inara’s wild mane of leather dreads and her eyes widen—before she pans a knowing, gleeful look on me. “In the parking lot?! You dirty, dirty hypocrite!” She sounds scandalized but victorious to have caught me being a hypocrite. Then she’s double—maybe triple—shocked as something else occurs to her. “You shagged in your grandpa’s Boss?!”