“Joe said he'd cover it.” The guy got a little over a hundred grand a year, every year, from his trust fund. Five hundred bucks was nothing.
“That is so sweet.”
“You're sweet.”
I kissed her in front of the baby monitors, long and slow and achingly perfect, until someone cleared their throat, making me look up.
It was a guy in a backwards baseball cap, holding a huge tin of formula and a giant pack of diapers, bags under his eyes.
“You know that's how you get in this position, right? All starts with a kiss,” he cracked, then did a doubletake. “Hey, Darla Jo.”
“Hey there, Kenny.”
“Heard about your mama. Congrats. Didn't know Calvin had it in him.” Kenny's phone buzzed and he looked down. “Sheeeeeet. Kellanne wants Nutella and bananas, too?”
With a sigh, he wandered off.
“You seriously know everyone, Darla.”
“Here, I do. Kenny was two years behind me in school. In Boston I'm anonymous.”
“Can you enjoy both? Just accept that's the path you've chosen?”
“Both. Hmmm. Where have I heard that before? Why not choose both?”
The innuendo didn't sink in at first, but then I grinned. “Right. We found a way, didn't we? The three of us? You didn't pick one or the other. You got the best of everything. Maybe think about Ohio and Boston the same way. Find your own life. Craft it how you want.”
Her kiss was deeper, harder, rougher this time.
“How about you craft me some sexytime in the car?”
I grabbed the cart and got to the checkout lines, veering toward self-checkout. Darla was a pro, finding barcodes like it was her job, finishing everything quickly. I used my credit card and made a mental note to get Joe to pay me back, and as we left, Tom shouted:
“Them eggs! Don't forget to use 'em or lose 'em.”
“Do I explain to him that women lose them no matter what?” Darla said as we practically sprinted to the car. I popped the trunk and loaded everything in, cock trying to break free of its pants cage and lunge inside Darla.
“How about I let my dick do a thorough inventory of your egg supply right now?” I said as I climbed into the front seat and grabbed her ass as she crawled in.
“That is the worst line you've ever used on me.”
“Fine, Chippy Pete.”
She groaned at the old nickname. Too bad.
She created it.
A quickie in a car isn't like regular sex. The entire point is to insert Tab T into Slot D.
Hot, warm, wet, luscious Slot D.
The condom was in my wallet, which she found, ripping the foil open, sliding it over me until I winced as the end of it caught some short and curlies, but who cared? She just climbed on like we were at Disney and she had a Fastpass that said Trevor on it.
“Darla,” I moaned in her ear, biting it as her thighs wrapped around mine and she sank over me onto my cock, the orgasm right there, too close, too fast.
Or was it?
The pressure of her tits in my face, my mouth unable to do anything but groan against her full body, made me push up, hammering hard, ass clenching with the force it took to push her to climax. A wall of pussy turned into one big, tight welcome center of lust and then –
Holy shit.
I came. I came that fast.
In a role reversal, she jackhammered me, grabbing the back of the seat and using her hips to pound hard, my bones working double-time to keep up. Whatever frenzy she was in, it was stratospheric, and I just hung on for the ride so she could explode properly.
Which she did, with a scream that you could hear through the tailpipe and straight out to Boston.
Panting hard, she collapsed on me, my cock inside her, wondering what the hell just happened.
But damn glad that it did.
Tap tap tap.
Startled, we looked out my window, Darla still straddling me, nothing hanging out that would get us charged with public indecency, but if Darla had to climb off me, we'd reveal more than enough to be arrested.
“Do you two mind? Get a room. This is a family company and you're desecrating its parking lot. This neighborhood does have some standards,” said a guy wearing a cowboy outfit. As he turned away, the assless chaps stood out, a tattoo of an enormous penis with fireworks exploding out of the tip on one cheek.
“Who the hell was that?” I asked as Darla performed a remarkable contortionist technique to get off me and not flash her labia to the world.
“Dan.”
The guy climbed inside the Dan's Hands vehicle.
Great.
Dressed down by a guy who gives mobile handjobs.
And it wasn't even six a.m.
“Welcome to Peters,” Darla said with a grin, collapsing, boneless, into the passenger seat.
Bzzzz.
My phone. It was Joe.
I'm horny as can be and I hope you bought bacon.
“Did we buy bacon?' I asked Darla, rubbing my eyes, trying to get the pieces of me to coordinate and work together again so I could drive.
“Mmm hmm. I knew Joe would want some after sex.”
“After sex?”
“Right. Round Two, here we go.”
“You knew Joe wanted more sex?”
“Is the sun rising, Trevor? Of course he does.”
“You two can go at it. I'm out.”
“Let's see how you feel in ten minutes.”
“You sound so smug when you say it that way.”
“What way?”
“Smugly.”
“Smugly sounds like the name of a butler in one of Mama's historical romance novels.” She let out a loose laugh. “Besides, if I sound smug when I'm being smug, that's not an accusation. That's just a fact. And it means I did it right.”
“Darla?”
“Yeah.”
“You're ruining the afterglow.”
Chapter 11
Joe
Trevor had a distinct look he got when he’d just finished boning Darla.
And all it took was one glance for me to know.
“Where did you two go?” I asked as I made myself a cup of coffee, wincing as I caught an eyeful of my scraped-up arms. The skin still burned, inflamed and raw.
“WalMart. Like I said in my note,” he explained as they unloaded bags of groceries in the kitchen.
“Where'd you have sex?”
“Parking lot,” Darla chirped, happy as all get out, and like that's normal. As if we all talk about banging someone in a parking lot the way we ask which movie someone went to see.
“Which parking lot?”
“WalMart.”
I couldn't hold the groan back. “A day and a half here in podunk hoopieville and you become a stereotype of a stereotype?” I said to her, knowing it would provoke a fight.
I wanted a fight.
She's way more fun in bed that way.
Instead of turning red with anger, she just gave me a loopy grin. “You can take the woman out of Ohio, but you can't take the - ”
“I know, I know,” I said, moving to her, sniffing. “I smell plenty of Ohio on you.”
“That's Trevor's spooge.”
“I wasn't being literal.”
“I am.” Her cheery mood meant I was definitely getting some.