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Aurora Rivelle. Twenty-four. Albany, New York.
I flip past the ID and find a picture tucked beneath a flap. In it, she stands with a man and a woman—her parents, I presume—beside a truck similar to mine. She’s a trucker’s daughter? No wonder she’s so comfortable getting into the rigs with us.
She’ll regret that in the end.
“Are you coming?” she calls from the back.
Soon enough, I think with a smirk as I tuck the clutch into the backpack.
As I enter the back of the rig, she looks at me with sweet fuck-me eyes. That look will fade when I get my hands on her.
“What do you want?” she asks.
She wastes no time waiting for my answer, and her hand goes for my zipper. Her eyes widen as she pulls out my cock and sees my dick. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of the length or girth. Maybe it's the black metal piercing or the tattoo etched into that sensitive area. Cry for me, it says.
Kane fucking flipped when he saw it. Women aren’t able to cry for him when he can’t even get hard, so I think it hurt his delicate ego a bit. He shouldn’t worry. He might be incapable of sexual intimacy, but I’m primed to provide our body with what it needs.
I grip her chin, and she whimpers. “Your mouth. And your dirty whore cunt,” I growl.
“Eighty,” she says, squeezing her eyes closed against the pain of my pinching grasp.
“You got a meal for free. A ride. With the price of fuel these days, I’d say we’re about even, little girl.”
Her eyes open. “You have to pay me. I need the money.”
“You won’t need anything with us.”
“Us?”
“Me,” I blurt, trying to correct my mistake.
I sometimes forget that to people like her, to everyone else, we’re just Kane. It doesn’t matter who’s driving at the time. And that’s the shitty part of this setup because I’m not him. I’m me, my own person living inside his fucked-up little mind. I matter too. I have my own desires and wants and needs. I’m my own person.
She tries to scramble away, but I grab her arm and tug her back to me.
“If you cause me any trouble, Ms. Rivelle, I’ll personally pay a visit to your family on Carnation Road.”
Her widening gaze shifts to the passenger seat as she realizes I’ve looked at her ID. Girls like her don’t typically have caring parents, which also means the girls don’t care about the parents. She’s a unique one, though. As soon as I saw the picture, I knew I had a whore with a heart. That’s a detriment in her line of work, though. It gives me all the ammo I need.
“Fuck you,” she says, and I’m surprised by how calm she is.
I smirk. She’s something else. And I kind of like it.
I push her onto the bed but turn away and head to the kitchen instead of leaping on her. I pull two bottles of beer from the small fridge, pop them open, and offer one to her.
“Drink,” I say.
She eyes the bottle for a moment before tipping it against her lips and emptying it as quickly as I empty mine. A line of escaped alcohol dribbles from the corner of her mouth, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving mine.
I take a step back and lick my lips. “Now fuck yourself with it.”
Most girls get weird about using objects, acting as if they never experimented with things when they were younger. Not Aurora, though. She spreads her legs, giving me a view of everything beneath her short skirt as she grips the bottle’s base. Her hand moves to her pussy, and as she spreads the full lips, I can’t help but harden. It’s such a good-looking cunt.
She swirls her tongue around the mouth of the bottle, lubricating the glass before she lowers it to her entrance and pushes it inside. She hooks her arm around her thigh and thrusts in and out, but she doesn’t moan or make a sound. Even as she fucks herself harder, she remains silent. When she pulls it out and sucks it into her mouth, I nearly come in my pants.
“Why are you fucking yourself so good for me, little whore?”
“Because I’m not trying to be any trouble,” she says with a snarky hiss in her tone.
