silky smooth

The last few weeks had been agonizing. A spontaneous outing had led your mother to meet a man, and the encounter quickly blossomed into a relationship; suddenly, she was breaking the news that the three of you would be abandoning your hometown and moving states away, completely isolated from family and friends.

You stand in your bedroom, faintly decorated with memorabilia from your old house; stuffed animals lining your bed, a few knicknacks on your dresser, books piled high on your desk, and even a poster you pinned up with a few tacks. It didn’t feel like home, not an ounce of it did.

Maybe it was the stranger walking around who your mother nudged you to call ‘dad ’; you refused that idea, scoffing at even the thought of referring to another man as your dad. It was off the table, the only way you could reclaim some sense of agency after being forced to move hours away, prying yourself from the job at the library you scored at sixteen, and having to leave behind everything you knew, for some man.

You resented him, and he knew it.

It could’ve been worse–the house is nice; a large forest surrounds it, in the middle of nowhere, an open, long road without a single person living on it for miles. You were isolated in this small town, though it was barely a town; you hadn’t seen the mailman, yet papers ended up at the door every Sunday, and you had started to think it was haunted. Maybe.

“Night shift tonight, sweetheart,” your mother butts in, leaning on the doorframe of your bedroom. “Not sure if there’s anything in the fridge to eat; you can ask your dad to order in, or something,” she shrugs, clad in her pink scrubs.

“Not my dad,” you say back instantly, setting down the picture you had been staring at. “There’s nowhere to even order in from–we’re miles away from a restaurant, Mom.” 

“You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out,” she reassures and walks across the floorboards towards you. “I promise, he’ll get you something if you ask politely.” She lifts a hand and pinches your cheek like you’re five again.

“He gives me the creeps,” you counter, tilting your head to the side and blinking slowly.

“Because you haven’t spoken to him,” she responds, rubbing her thumb over her cheek. “Tonight would be a good night… to talk to him; I’m not here to make it awkward,” she smiles. 

“Whatever,” you dismiss and pull back from her gentle grip–it’s annoying, the way she’s trying to act like she didn’t rip you away from your roots and place you in the middle of nowhere with nothing.

She had secured a job as a nurse at the small medical clinic an hour or so down the road; you found that out when the three of you pulled into the driveway, and her boyfriend congratulated her on finding a job so easily. It made a lot more sense that she didn’t care she was leaving behind her small job.

“Be good,” she points her finger at you and turns on her heel, blowing you a chaste kiss before disappearing behind the doorframe and down the hallway. 

You groan softly and tilt your head back at the thought of being forced to spend time alone with this man. The most communication you have with him is over breakfast, when he prys and prys, hoping you’ll crack and tell him some detailed college story, but your one-word answers deter him, and he sips his coffee, accepting defeat. 

The night settles in, and your mom is working away, all while he lingers somewhere in the house. He’s probably on the couch, sipping beer and flicking through channels, and you’re a hostage in your bedroom, sitting on your bed, a book in your lap.

“Haven’t eaten anything, have you?” a low voice comes from the doorframe, and he stands there; hair damp, shaggy with excess water, and you realize he wasn’t in the living room. He had just showered.

“No,” you shake your head and look back down at your book, and he clenches his jaw.

Before all of this, he worked with the public–analyzing people, sifting through parts of their brains they didn’t want others to know about, and you were this spread-out, glorious puzzle he was trying to connect and fit together. It was impossible with you, and it was an undeniable pull he had towards you because of it. 

“Well, you need to,” he states plainly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m old enough to know these things,” you say without looking up from your book, mindlessly flipping through the pages, and he grits his teeth together.

“You act like a child, though,” he counters, taking a few steps into your bedroom, and he’s wrapped in the familiar scent that usually follows you around like a tail; sweet, sickeningly sweet, a combination of desserts and what else they can shove into tubes and bottles with pink packaging. 

“But I’m not,” you respond drily, not even noticing that he is now in your bedroom, his eyes scanning your walls and desk. Maybe he’s taking an interest.

He’s quiet as he leans against your desk that faces the end of your bed, and he crosses his arms again, his ankle over the other one, too. You try to ignore him, but you can smell the shampoo and lotion he used when he got out of the shower. You look up.

“You have to eat something,” he states once more, and he stares at you.

“My mom said we don’t even have any food,” you shake your head, placing your book onto the bed beside you. “What is there to eat?”

“While you were hiding in here, I got pizza,” he shrugs, rubbing his hand over his scruff. “Didn’t even notice I was gone for hours,” he shakes his head, and you sigh.

You almost feel bad–this poor man trying to build a relationship with you, and your walls are built so high that he doesn’t know where to even start with tearing them down. Pizza sounds like a peace offering, and you lick your lips.

“I’ll have some pizza.” You nod hesitantly, and he shoots you a half-grin.

“You like that vanilla ice cream too, yeah?” he asks, blinking. “Convenience store beside the joint had some, got you a tub,” he nods slowly, and you shift against your mattress, appreciating his efforts despite despising him.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and he’s standing off your desk.

“Come on,” he waves towards you, gesturing for you to join him in the kitchen to eat.

Just the light above the oven is flicked on when you enter the kitchen, the television running, and the pizza reheated on a different plate. The drive was a long one, and you knew the pizza had to be put in the oven again, and the ice cream probably melted–it had it all laid out perfectly, and you suddenly feel guilty.

“Great signal,” he comments, gesturing toward the television, then leaning over to grab himself a slice of pizza. “Middle of nowhere and works like a charm,” he shrugs, trying to make small talk.

“Barely worked at the old place,” you reply, sliding a piece of pizza onto the plate. “Kept skipping, and half the time it froze on ads,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“Happens,” he says, watching your hands holding the ceramic plate, contemplating whether to head back to your bedroom or to join him on the couch to watch a movie.

You glance at the bedroom, then at the living room, and decide to sit on the small couch, sinking into the cushions. He joins you and takes a seat beside you, this time cracking open a beer, and you take a bite of the pizza. He watches you out of the corner of his eye, relief flooding his body at the small nod of satisfaction.

The movie playing on the television is random, something that you watch when you just want background noise, not when you’re trying to curb the awkward tension between you and your mom’s boyfriend.

“Getting sleepy?” he asks when he notices your head resting against your palm, your elbow against the armrest. Both of your plates are on the coffee table, and he’s on his third beer.

“No,” you mumble, shaking your head, but you yawn, and he smiles.

“Seem sleepy,” he shoots back, his beer bottle resting against his sweatpants over his thigh.

“Just… my body kind of hurts,” you shrug, unsure of why you’re telling him this.

He furrows his eyebrows. “Why? What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You turn your head to look at him when the pet name slips from his lips, and he’s unfazed, his eyes blinking, concerned about your soft complaint. He didn’t mean anything by it.

“Went on that long walk in the forest earlier,” you explain, looking back at the television. “My feet hurt, my shoes aren’t the best… for that kind of stuff,” you shrug, and he listens carefully.

The long walks in the forest were what was keeping you sane. Being stuck in the house, listening to your mother fawn over the dude she just met, all while shoving the relationship down your throat–the combination was sickening, and roaming around seemed a lot better. Even if your shoes were uncomfortable, and your heels bled.

“That’s not good,” he shakes his head, his eyes taking a peek at your feet, curled up on the couch, and he licks his tongue over his teeth, contemplating.

“I know, it hurts,” you reply, sighing quietly.

“Hand ‘em over,” he says, and you look over at him, your brows stitching together and a small, confused smile twitching at your lips. “Your feet.”

You scoff and look around the living room like there’s a hidden camera picking this up, and slowly turn back to gaze at the genuine man, his eyes revealing something beyond the lust and evil you usually find when a man older than you looks at you. You nod.

His hand is warm when it covers your feet, and you let them rest in his lap, gentle touches roaming over your ankle; his thumb brushes the ball of your ankle, dipping to the arch, the other hand lightly roaming over your calf. You watch quietly as he soothes the ache from moving on your feet all day–they wouldn’t hurt if you weren’t trying to escape his presence, and now here he is, making you feel better. You blink.

“That feels okay, right?” he checks in, and you’re almost falling asleep from the affectionate touch. You mumble something inaudible and mindlessly nod, yawning once more, and your eyes suddenly feel heavy, then shut.

The next time your eyes flick open, you realize that you had fallen asleep on the couch–feet in his lap, and he’s asleep too; his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed, and his hair messily dried- and your eyes widen at the realization. You suck in a breath and look over at the television. The time flashes six o’clock in the morning, and your mom is usually home by seven.

You curse quietly to yourself and slowly pull your feet from his grip, biting your lip to keep from waking him, and tiptoe your way back into your bedroom, glancing over your shoulder at him. You wonder when you dozed off, and how long you were on the couch with him; legs over his lap, his hand rubbing your calf, and you swallow hard.

When you wake up for breakfast, he’s already awake too, moving through the kitchen with plates and pans, and your mom is sitting half-asleep at the dining table.

“Good morning,” he says to you casually, and you give a slight grin, taking a seat beside your mom, who is sipping copious amounts of black coffee.

“Honey, I’m going out today with the girls,” your mom tells you with a shrug, her lips still around the mug.

You furrow your eyebrows. “The girls? We just… moved here? And we don’t have neighbours.”

“Met some ladies on my shift last night, really sweet, wanted to invite me to lunch and stuff with them,” she smiles, giving you a nod. “Cute town about an hour or so away.”

Her boyfriend is in the kitchen listening, mentally preparing to spend the day alone with you–and you’re doing it too, wondering if it’ll be him rubbing your feet and legs on the couch again until you fall asleep type of night. You glance at the back of his head.

“And you’re not tired?” you ask your mom, noticing her boyfriend dipping into the dining room.

“Holy hell, am I ever,” she laughs, taking a longer sip of coffee.

You don’t reply; you merely shift in the wooden chair, watching as a plate is slid in front of you. The food is already cut up, like you’re a toddler incapable of using utensils, and you look to your mom’s boyfriend, who is walking away and coming back to bring the plates for the two of you. The food isn’t cut up.

You pick at the pre-sliced pancake and take a bite, glancing up at him. He sits across from you, picking around at his eggs with his fork and knife, reaching for a piece of bacon, and your mom is beaming with delight. Her ex-husband, your dad, never did things like this. Ever.

“You know,” your mom starts, nudging you with her elbow. “This little lady doesn’t even have her license yet,” she says, looking over at you through a bite of toast.

“Mom,” you scold lightly and look to her, knowing how pathetic it was not to have your license at your age–you never wanted it, never thought you needed it, and now that you were miles away from everything, it was kind of crucial.

“Maybe… he can teach you,” she offers, and her boyfriend sighs quietly, looking at you, but your head is down. “He has that old truck out back, perfect for practicing,” she adds.

“No, it’s okay,” you shake your head quickly and shove a piece of syrup-soaked pancake into your mouth. “It’s… not that important; I don’t need lessons, or anything.”

“I don’t mind,” he speaks up and shakes his head, taking a long sip of coffee. “Truck is easy to drive, even if it’s older than you are,” he comments, and your eyes meet his.

“See? Now you won’t be bored while I’m at lunch,” your mom grins, nodding in excitement.

“Thanks,” you mumble, your eyes more focused on the pool of butter than pancakes than anything else in the dining room. 

Today is going to be a long day.

When you emerge from your bedroom, you’re wearing the white dress your mom had bought you before the move, a gift to make up for the fact she was ruining your life–cotton and lacy, perfectly short for the summer, and you thought that it actually suited you, rather than hid your body like you were used to.

“You ready?” he calls from the kitchen, and you hear the jingle of keys in his hand, and you walk around the corner, nodding.

It’s not like he doesn’t know that you’re pretty; of course he does. Your hair moving over your shoulders, the way your legs peek out of the shorts you wear, and your shirt riding up when you reach for something, or that embarrassed smile he sees when your mom teases you. He noticed it all.

“I’m ready,” you say, and he’s already heading out of the front door, keys on hand. 

The truck is parked in the driveway, old and beaten up, mostly used for short trips or for working on the large lot behind the house. He opens the doors, and you climb into the passenger seat, gazing around the small interior: no centre console like most trucks, and the seats were actually comfortable.

“You ever drive, at all?” he asks, the truck coming to life with a turn of the key as he backs out of the driveway, glancing over his shoulder.

“I had a job at a golfing place, had to drive the carts,” you explain, turning your head to watch him, and he’s focusing on maneuvering the truck out of the dirt path.

“Pretty much the same,” he reassures, glancing over at you before shifting into drive. “Just a lot bigger,” he nods, the truck chugging down the road.

He drives the truck down the road, getting a few feet away from the house before pausing in the middle of the street. It didn’t matter; barely any drove through, and he looks to you, carefully patting his thigh. He watches your eyebrows raise.

“I’ll control the peddles,” he explains with a nod, leaning a little back into the truck. “You can steer, yeah?” he says, and you’re too busy looking down at the thigh he just suggested you sit on.

It’s thick, all muscle pressing against the denim, and you hesitantly nod, shuffling across the seats until he’s helping you onto his thigh. His hands are careful, never touching where they shouldn’t, only on your hips and waist, never straying too far away. 

“This comfortable?” He asks through a laugh, and you’re trying to act like it’s not straight cotton underwear against his denim thigh; all rough between your legs, and you shift awkwardly.

“It’s fine,” you smile nervously and gulp, your hands finding the thin steering wheel. He pats your hip.

“Steering is the easiest part,” he says, looking over your shoulder at the open road. “Truck is a little… sensitive; don’t need much of a turn for it to turn left or right,” he explains, his thumb rubbing against the fabric of your dress.

You stare at the open road too, hesitantly nodding when he guides you through it. His hand is warm through the dress, and large enough to span most of it. You’re trying to ignore how firm he is between your thighs, and how gentle he’s being. It’s such an innocent moment, and you’re making it perverted.

“I’m gonna ease off the brake,” he tells you, lifting his boot off the pedal. “And now the gas,” he adds, squeezing your hip, and you squeeze the wheel.

The truck starts rolling ahead, and you lightly tweak the wheel, swerving more into the right lane, and he’s smiling as you do it. He looks ahead; no cars for miles. Perfect.

“Don’t know what your mama was talking about,” he shakes his head, referencing a conversation you weren’t a part of. “You’re doing just fine.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, biting your lip in focus, guiding the truck along. He watches, focusing just like you are.

“How about we make it fun?” He offers, and you feel your cheeks blooming with warmth. “I’ll tell you to swerve, and then you have to do it as quickly as possible,” he says, and you feel relief.

You need to stop being so damn perverted.

“Okay, I can do that,” you nod confidently, and he grins, patting your hip again.

“Gonna pick up the speed a bit, okay? Make it harder for you,” he replies, easing his boot onto the gas even more, and the truck chugs in response to the extra kick.

The trick starts moving along a bit quicker, and you sit up, adjusting your hips against his thigh, and you hate how that small tingle settles there, an uncomfortable ache that shouldn’t be appearing. It’s your mom’s boyfriend teaching you to drive, and you’re getting horny from his thigh. 

“Swerve,” he says softly, and you instantly turn the wheel, a sharp divet, and he laughs at your reaction time. 

You’re laughing, too, at how quickly the truck moved and how quickly your response time was. He’s impressed and presses his thumb into the dress.

“Look at you,” he says, grinning as he looks at the side of your face. “Driving like a pro,” he teases.

“I am,” you nod quickly, looking back to him, and your faces are much too close together. You quickly look back and away from him.

“How about we switch now?” he suggests, slowly hitting the brake. “I’ll steer, you control the pedals.”

You nod again, and he slowly shifts position, his fingers lightly brushing yours as you pull back from him. He carefully puts just one hand on the steering wheel, and you have to shift further up his thigh. You close your eyes slightly, feeling the friction as you settle on the edge, and your foot holds the brake.

“Atta girl, there,” he praises, and he squeezes your hip. “A little gas, go ahead,” he encourages, and you listen.

The truck starts moving again, and he’s immediately teasing you, swerving a bit and making you laugh louder, your foot subconsciously pressing down, making you go faster. He’s smiling, listening to you laugh—it might be the first damn time he’s heard it, and it’s like sunshine against his skin. He soaks it up.

“How about we put the two together now,” he says, not asking, but telling. “You steer, and control the pedals now,” he grins, and you hesitantly nod.

He takes one hand off the steering wheel and now holds both of your hips, and you place your two hands on the wheel. You lightly grip the wheel, and ease onto the gas again—you’re fully driving, and he’s watching.

“Good girl, that’s perfect,” he shakes his head, blinking slowly. “We can already take you to your test,” he jokes, and you shake your head, too.

“Can’t even park,” you respond, biting your lip, focusing on staying in the lines. “They’d call the cops on me. I’d be crashing all over the place,” you joke.

“Yeah, right, look at you,” he scoffs, sliding a hand further around your hip, gently holding your stomach. “Staying in the lines, not even swerving, looking like a pro to me.”

You smile to yourself, feeling his warm hand on your abdomen, his thumb rubbing gently there too. It feels good; his thigh between your legs, and his hand holding your stomach. You swallow hard. 

“How about… I make it a little more difficult,” he prompts, and you nod, accepting the little challenge. He grins.

He starts lightly bouncing his knee, and your eyes widen as you grip the steering wheel tighter than ever. You know he’s just trying to jostle you around, making you lose balance and focus, but it’s doing a third thing you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

“Hey—“ you gasp out, feeling the constant pressure between your thighs, and he can feel them squeezing around his. “That’s—really distracting,” you grumble out, and he’s smiling.

“That’s the point,” he counters, holding your body against his thigh, lightly bouncing it up and down. “Real-life scenario; bumpy roads, can’t be flailing all over the place like a doll,” he teases, and you want to tell him how different this is.

“Are—you… you sure?” You stutter, slowly moving your foot to the brake, pressing down on it and tapping out. You know you can’t sit there any longer. 

“Maybe you’re not a pro,” he says, laughing, and you frown a little, feeling him stop bouncing. “Need to perfect it, even when you can’t think straight.”

You sigh loudly, not knowing whether he was doing it on purpose or because he truly thought it was just a little joke, jostling you around, making it hard to steer and focus. He probably knew; he definitely did.

“Shut up, I was doing good,” you retort, slowly moving off his lap, and he slides his hands back, leaning further into the leather seat.

“Yeah, best driver I’ve seen in a minute,” he praises, glancing over at you. “Even if you can’t handle a bit of movement,” he says, shrugging and looking back at the road.

“It was unrealistic, I was trying to balance on your thigh,” you counter, and he nods in understanding, ticking his head to his side.

“Maybe we can try after dinner,” he suggests, shifting the truck back into drive. “Teach you how to balance on my thigh,” he mumbles, and you squeeze your thighs together.

“Yeah, we can,” you nod, knowing there was definitely some innuendo you were picking up on. It makes your cheeks red, and you look out of the window.

“Great,” he taps the wheel with his thumb. “Your mama won’t mind; she wants us to be close,” he tells you as you drive back to the house.

“Yeah, she won’t get off my ass about it,” you sigh again, and he reaches over, flicking your thigh.

“Well, then we oughta’ spend more time together,” he jokes, already pulling into the long driveway. “I think we get along just fine; you’re just stubborn.”

“I am not stubborn,” you furrow your eyebrows at him, and he grins, setting the truck in park.

“This is the first time we’ve had a full conversation in weeks,” he explains, leaning into the seat, his arm resting against its length. “Stubborn girl, and that’s fine.”

“I was just nervous,” you explain, looking into your lap.

“Yeah? About what?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t know, you’re… older than me, and you… where did you meet my mom again?” You ask, tilting your head to the side

“I kept coming into her job,” he nods, tapping his thumb on the seat. “Thought she was a pretty thing.”

You almost gag and look away, your eyes wide. 

“I guess… that’s cute,” you shake your head, and he laughs.

“You’re pretty too,” he says casually, and you look over at him, and he’s smiling. “Real pretty.”

“Thank you,” you whisper shyly, and nod a little.

“No problem,” he says, shrugging, feeling an uncomfortable sensation behind the zipper of his jeans. “Just hope you know that.”

He’s overheard the conversations; you crying to your mom about feeling ugly, and she doesn’t deny it—your relationship has been rocky, and you know it, and he does too. It’s a unique feeling, and you close your eyes for a second.

“I think you’re prettier than she is,” he whispers to you, and you have to keep quiet—you can’t believe he just said that, and you slowly look at him.

“What?” You ask quietly, your eyes soft and wide.

“You’re a pretty girl,” he states again, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Always thought that,” he adds, his free hand coming up to rub his chin.

“Why are you with my mom, then?” You ask quietly, tilting your head to the side.

“I like her,” he responds, breathing out through his nostrils. “I don’t know why I said that,” he shakes his head.

“I think you’re handsome,” you speak up, and a stupid smirk quirks at his lips.

“You don’t have to say that to make it better, sweetheart,” he looks at you, blinking slowly.

“I’m not,” you deny. “That’s why I never wanted to talk to you.”

“Right, cause there’s just some… strong attraction to me, yeah?” He teases, grinning.

“Intimidating, tall, handsome… my new dad,” you go on, looking around the truck, your lips parted, laughing a little.

“You don’t have to call me ‘daddy’, you know? None of that stuff is fine,” he reassures, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Maybe I want to call you ‘daddy’,” you suggest, and he furrows his eyebrows at your bold words and clears his throat.

“Seemed pretty against it, maybe two days ago,” he tells you, suggesting he’d heard another conversation between you and your mother.

“I don’t know… you aren’t really my daddy,” you respond, biting your lip. “Just my… mom’s boyfriend.”

“Call me what you want to, sweetheart,” he says, and pats your bare thigh again. “Do whatever.”

At the dinner table, you’re practically scarfing down the food, shovelling carrots and mashed potatoes into your mouth, barely swallowing each mouthful. Your mom watches in amusement, her eyes blinking slowly at her daughter’s manners.

“Honey, there’s… a lot more on the stove,” he gestures with her wine glass from across the table, her boyfriend sipping a beer. “Nobody is taking it from you.” 

“I know,” you mumble through a mouthful, your eyes flickering to him; he’s watching with a soft grin curled into his lips. 

You want to be finished dinner so you can get out and practice again, alone, in the dark, on his thigh. The odd confessions in the truck made a tension wrap around you two, and now he’s trying his best to act like he doesn’t know why you’re clearing your plate.

“Sweetheart,” your mom says a bit more firmly, eyebrows furrowing. “I thought we talked about… how much you should be eating,” she mumbles under her breath.

You grit your teeth, and suddenly feel less guilty for wanting to have an affair with her boyfriend. You push away the plate in front of you, and he’s quiet, looking down at his almost finished plate.

“I’ll be in my room,” you say, standing up, your mom's lips parting—you were never to leave the dinner table until everyone had finished. 

“What a bitch she’s been lately,” your mom mumbles to her boyfriend, her eyes glaring over her shoulder and at your bedroom door around the corner. “Bring her here, beautiful house, for free, and she treats me like this.”

“She’s young,” he shakes his head, pushing around his steak with his fork. “At her age, I was doing drugs, three girlfriends,” he comments, and your mom rolls her eyes.

“Well, she’s never had a boyfriend,” she explains, digging into her potatoes. “It worries me, almost. No romantic interaction… almost mid-20s,” she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s normal,” he responds, looking at his girlfriend. “She could be sleeping around, giving you pregnancy scares constantly,” he waves his fork around in exaggeration.

“I guess,” she breathes out, taking a sip of her wine. “What do you think of her?”

His jaw clenches. “She’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” Your mother scoffs, looking over at her boyfriend. “She’s the devil incarnate; almost threatened to make her get an apartment.”

“She was good today, while driving,” he praises you behind your back, and your mom scoffs again.

“Good, because the minute she can get her license… I want her out, just the two of us,” she sips her wine again, and his shoulders relax, shaking his head.

“Teaching her more after dinner,” he comments, thinking it’s a good idea to judge in the plan. “I’ll get her… all prepared, in no time.”

“You’re the best, you know that?” Your mom smiles, leaning over and gently kissing the side of her boyfriend’s cheek. He looks over his shoulder.

When he’s finished his dinner, he comes around your bedroom door again, knocking softly, and you smile when he stands there, smiling. The truck keys are in one of his hands, and he nods towards the front door.

You dip by him, and he watches you head to the door; your dress is flowy and long, the hem against your thighs, and he feels less guilty looking at you. His girlfriend is a bitch.

The leather seats are warm against your thighs when you get in, the sun almost down completely, and crickets already buzz in the bushes. He smiles when he gets in next, looking over at you.

“You ready to learn it all over again?” He teases, shifting the truck into reverse and slowly pulling out of the driveway, pulling onto the long road.

“I am,” you smile, and nod quickly, watching him drive a little further this time. You pass the gravel road sign, realizing he’s taking you farther down the road, farther from the house.

He slowly eases off the gas and hits the brake, looking over at you and patting his thigh again. This time, you don’t hesitate to climb over, and you settle against it.

There it is; that gentle pressure, that warmth, that tingle. It feels so good, and you remember why you wanted to eat dinner so quickly. All for this, just a fleeting moment of pleasure against his thigh. It was embarrassing.

He starts bouncing it slightly, but you’re not even driving—the truck isn’t even in drive; it’s parked —and your eyes widen.

“Just a trial run,” he teases, sliding his hands to hold your hips. “Thought we’d practice without the driving first.”

“Yeah... okay,” you breathe out, nodding, feeling the way he just bounces; his knee nudging its way against your core, right between your thighs, and past your cotton dress.

He squeezes your hips, and you breathe out, quickly biting your lip when you realize he might’ve heard that sound—quiet and breathy, but evident. He heard it, and he breathes out too.

“How you holding up?” He asks quietly, no longer talking about balancing, or driving, or anything you’re supposed to be talking about.

“I’m… I’m fine,” you nod slowly, swallowing hard, your head bowing forward slightly, and he clenches his jaw.

“You sure?” He almost whispers, leaning his head forward, letting his mouth linger by your ear. “Just fine? Or doing good?”

“Really good, yeah,” you nod in agreement, and he smiles, letting his hands tighten on your hips and he does it. He begins guiding your hips.

You moan softly the minute he starts guiding you to grind against his thigh; your underwear moving against his denim jeans, feeling the warmth seeping through the cotton fabric, right onto his muscular thigh. It feels good, and your eyes flutter, lips parting. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, nodding. “You ever do this?”

He knows you haven’t. Your mom aired out your virginity at dinner.

“No,” you shake your head quickly, moaning again. “Just—my pillows, stuff like that,” you confess, and his eyebrows raise.

“Humping your pillows,” he laughs out, gently kissing the side of your neck. “This feels better than that?”

“A lot better,” you nod quickly, feeling everything. “So… so much better,” you almost whine out. 

“I’m glad,” he mumbles, assisting your hesitant grinds. “Nice and firm, yeah? Hits that spot,” he teases some more, and you grit your teeth, nodding.

Pillows weren’t this firm or warm—didn’t have a man’s voice connected to it, or lips against your neck. This is something you’ve never experienced, and it’s more than you thought it would be.

“Yeah… feels so much better,” you babble again, and he uses his hand to sweep your head from the side of your neck, but quickly holds your hip again.

“Gonna make you cum for the first time too,” he whispers, now lightly kissing your neck. “Assuming… you haven’t before,” he says, smiling as he moans at your jaw.

“Haven’t,” you shake your head and bite your lip, gazing down at his thigh in the dimly lit truck. “Don’t wanna cum.”

“Why not?” He asks quietly, nuzzling his nose against your neck. “Most women beg for that,” he laughs.

“Embarrassing,” you nod quickly out of shame, and he nods in understanding.

“Not embarrassing, baby,” he coos, sliding a hand to rest against your stomach. “Want you to cum from  humping my thigh.”

He rubs your andomen lightly, like he knows that it feels impossibly tight and warm—a squeeze you're trying to keep in, and you’re groaning now, hips speeding up, rutting against him like an eager puppy. He’s smiling.

“Think… I’m gonna cum,” you babble to him, and he holds your hip with one hand, ensuring you keep the same pace that’s making you close.

“Cum, then,” he encourages, kissing your jaw. “Just cum, baby, will feel so good,” he whispers, licking your sweat.

You do cum, and it’s a feeling you’re unfamiliar with; it’s like you want to hold your breath and breathe out at the same time, and an impossibly tight coil in your stomach, and you clench your thighs around his thigh, squeezing and squeezing, trying your best not to collapse completely.

“There you go… shh,” he coos softly, now noticing how heavily you’re panting, clearly struggling to grasp the surge of feelings. “Made a little mess, that’s fine.”

“Ah—” you mumble, your hips stalled, and all he can feel is a damp warmth across his denim jeans, and he blinks. The truck is so warm.

“Maybe I’ll give you a lesson every day, yeah? How does that sound?” He whispers to you, still rubbing your stomach. “Sound good?”