Page 33 of The Woman I’ve Become

The silence inside the car expands and thickens. I dare to glance at him. The dash lights outline his stony profile. He is seriously pissed. I think for a moment that I should be afraid. Wendy’s suggestion that he is a psycho echoes in my ears. Then he looks at me, and I know damned well I should be terrified.

I’m not sure how far we drive or what road we turn onto. Exhaustion, fear, or the alcohol residue has me disoriented.

Then the car stops moving. The engine goes quiet. I stare out the window at the darkness. “Where are we?”

The sound of my voice startles me. I didn’t realize until then that I said the words aloud.

“What the hell were you doing tonight?”

I blink and my anger returns full force. “What the hell were you doing? You stood me up, you asshole.”

“Something came up.” He says this without looking at me. Not that it would matter since it’s so fucking dark with the dash lights no longer casting a glow. I can barely see the shape of him.

“You couldn’t call? I stood around at that Starbucks until I looked like the town whore waiting for a john. What the fuck, Casey?”

“I said”—he leans across the console, putting his face in mine—“something came up. Work. I didn’t have a chance to call.”

I glare at him, hope he can see it. “That’s a shit excuse.”

He reaches across me and does something to the seat. It jerks backward, and suddenly he’s on top of me.

“It’s a shit excuse,” he agrees. “But it’s the only one I have.”

I swallow, try to reason what to say next, but he kisses me before I can think how to reply. It’s hard and deep, and my body reacts with such need that I cry out. His hand goes to the hem of my skirt. He pushes it up and drags my panties down my thighs. I reach for his fly, but he beats me to it, and then he’s out and plunging into me.

I scream. My hands can’t get enough of touching him. My lips search for his. I’m coming and I need him to hurry . . . to make it happen before I lose my mind. And then I’m arching into him, crying out with the release.

I melt into the seat, but he isn’t finished yet. Somehow he twists around and I’m on top. My head bumps the top of the car. He’s moving my hips back and forth over him. Just as I get the rhythm, that urgency starts to build again. He’s got me charging toward climax once more.

This time we both come and I collapse onto his chest.

I can feel his heart pounding in time with mine, and I smile. Even though we’re both damp with sweat and still joined like the perfect parts of a puzzle, I want to laugh with happiness.

“I watched you,” he murmurs.

“What?” I lift my head and stare at him, though I can scarcely see him no matter that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness. I make out the angle of his jaw, the square chin and perfect lips.

“My business was at that club—the one you and your friend showed up at.”

My fingers fist in his shirt, and I wish it was his skin. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He makes a sound, a sort of laugh. “I was having way too much fun watching the two of you make out on the dance floor.”

I pull away from him, my head hitting the top of the car again. “We were not making out. We were just having a good time.”

“The way your bodies were pressed together and moving . . . the way you touched each other. Hmm. Looked like sex to me.”

And just like that he is hard and throbbing inside me.

“You should have joined us.” I move, forcing him deeper. He groans.

“Couldn’t. I was working.”

I start to move into that perfect rhythm. The sounds coming from him as I do make me feel strangely powerful. I keep going, and he’s breathing faster and faster. His hands grip my hips so hard I’m certain I’ll have bruises, but I don’t care. I can barely breathe. I couldn’t speak if my life depended on it. The tension deep in my body is twisting into a frenzy. I press my hands against the top of the car. I feel as though I’m about to erupt into flames.

We both come again, screaming into the night with the impact of it.

This time we lie together in silence for long minutes after we’re done . . . until our hearts have slowed. I trace the nipple I exposed while ripping at his shirt. I love every part of him. He is my everything. If I had any doubts, this has confirmed it’s true.