#era

The engine of the Ford Gran Torino cut off with a final, shuddering cough, plunging the front seat into a near-total darkness punctuated only by the flickering glow of the drive-in screen ahead. It was late August 1978, and the air was thick and humid, smelling of popcorn, hot asphalt, and the sweet, cloying scent of the jasmine bushes that lined the perimeter of the lot.

“See?” Michael said, his voice a little too loud in the sudden quiet. He fumbled with the gear shift, a nervous, repetitive motion. “Told you I could get a good spot. Perfect view.”

You leaned over the bench seat, your arm brushing his, and peered up at the colossal screen. The previews were just starting, a montage of explosions and cheesy one-liners. The speakers, perched awkwardly on the driver’s side window, crackled with static.

“‘S a great spot, Mike,” you said softly, trying to soothe the jitters that were practically vibrating off him. You’d been dating for six months, and he still got like this before dates—a strange, endearing mix of cocky performer and shy, fumbling boy.

He finally stopped messing with the gear shift and settled back in his seat, but he was a tightly coiled spring. He was wearing a dark blue, v-neck sweater that showed the surprising breadth of his shoulders, and the pale blue of his jeans was almost white in the reflected light from the screen. He was beautiful. And he was terrified.

You’d been here before, to this drive-in, to this exact movie. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was your idea. You loved it—the creeping paranoia, the quiet horror. You also knew it was the perfect excuse to get close. To give him an out. If he got scared, he could hold your hand. If he got really scared, he could put his arm around you. You were laying a breadcrumb trail of plausible deniability.

On screen, the film began. Donald Sutherland walked through a San Francisco bathed in a queasy, sickly light. Michael was rigid beside you, his hands clenched in his lap, his eyes glued to the screen but not really seeing it. You could hear his breathing, short and shallow.

Relaxing your own body against the vinyl seat, you let your hand drift over the space between you, your pinky finger just barely grazing the denim of his thigh. He jumped as if he’d been electrocuted.

You didn’t pull away. You just kept your finger there, a small, steady point of contact. After a long moment, you felt him unclench. His own hand, which had been balled into a fist, slowly uncurled. He hesitated, then turned his palm up on the seat. An invitation.

You slid your hand into his. His fingers were long and cool, and they closed around yours with a desperate strength. He let out a long, shaky breath, and some of the tension drained from his shoulders.

You sat like that for a while, just holding hands, watching the movie. On screen, the alien pods began to flower, their grotesque blossoms unfurling in the moonlight. The score swelled with a paranoid, throbbing hum.

“It’s th’ part,” Michael whispered, his lips right next to your ear. You could feel the warmth of his breath. “Th’ greenhouse scene.”

“Mmmhmm,” you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder. He flinched again, then relaxed, letting your weight settle against him. He smelled of soap and something else, something uniquely Michael—clean and a little bit sweet, like warm milk.

On screen, Kevin McCarthy appeared, wild-eyed and screaming, “They’re here already! You’re next!”

It was the perfect moment. A jump scare designed to make girls scream and boys feel brave. Michael’s grip on your hand tightened almost to the point of pain. You didn’t make a sound. Instead, you turned your head, your cheek sliding against the rough wool of his sweater, and looked at him.

In the strobing light of the screen, his face was a study in beautiful torment. His eyes were wide, fixed on the horror ahead, but his mind was clearly somewhere else. Somewhere in this car. With you.

You leaned in and kissed him.

It was meant to be a soft, reassuring kiss. A gentle press of lips to lips. But the second you made contact, something inside him snapped. It was like flipping a switch on a power grid.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound you felt more than heard. The hand that was holding yours let go, and his arm was suddenly around you, pulling you hard against him. His other hand flew to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. The kiss went from gentle to ravenous in a heartbeat. His tongue pushed past your lips, not asking permission, but taking. He kissed you with a frantic, desperate hunger that stole the air from your lungs.

He was clumsy at first, all teeth and frantic energy, a messy, overwhelming assault. But then, with an instinct that shocked you, he slowed down. He began to explore, his tongue stroking yours, learning the shape of your mouth, tasting you. It was a dizzying, intoxicating kiss. You completely forgot about the movie, about the drive-in, about everything but the feel of him.

His lips were impossibly soft, but the kiss was hard. Demanding. He was kissing you like he’d been starving for it, for months. His hips shifted, pressing against your thigh, and you could feel it—the hard, thick ridge of his erection straining against the tight denim of his jeans.

A jolt of pure, unadulterated lust shot through you. This was new. This was the line you’d both been dancing around, the unspoken thing that hummed in the space between you.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air. “Michael…”

His name on your lips seemed to break the spell. He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and dark in the dim light. He looked dazed, horrified, and completely turned on. He stared at his own erection, then at you, a flush of crimson creeping up his neck.

“I… M’ sorry,” he stammered, pulling away from you as if you were on fire. “I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have…”

You grabbed his wrist before he could retreat completely. “‘S fine,” you said, your voice firm. “Swear ‘s perfect.”

You looked him dead in the eye, and with a surge of confidence you didn’t know you possessed, you slid your hand from his wrist, down his thigh, and let it rest squarely over the bulge in his jeans.

He let out a choked gasp, his whole body going rigid. His head fell back against the seat with a soft thud, his eyes squeezing shut. You could feel the heat of him through the rough denim, the solid, throbbing weight of him in your palm. You gave a gentle, experimental squeeze.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the word a raw, ragged sound torn from his throat. It was the first time you’d ever heard him swear, and it was the sexiest thing you’d ever heard. He bucked his hips up, a helpless, involuntary movement, pressing himself harder into your hand.

Encouraged, you started to move. You rubbed your palm up and down the length of him, learning his shape, feeling him twitch and grow even harder under your touch. He was making these little sounds, soft, broken whimpers that were driving you insane.

“Is this okay?” you murmured, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“Don’t stop,” he panted, his head turning, his face burying in your hair. “Please, baby, don’t stop.”

His hands were on you again, but this time they weren’t hesitant. One gripped your thigh, his fingers digging in, pulling you closer. The other slid up your back, under your shirt, his calloused fingertips skating over your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He found the clasp of your bra and fumbled with it for a second before it gave way with a soft click. His hands were then on your bare breasts, warm and slightly trembling. He cupped them, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, and the sensation was so sharp, so intense, you cried out.

He froze. “Too much?”

“No,” you gasped, arching into his touch. “God, no.”

He grew bolder, rolling the sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger, sending bolts of pleasure straight down to the ache building between your legs. You were still stroking him through his jeans, the friction maddening, not enough, not nearly enough.

You wanted more. You wanted to feel him.

With one hand, you blindly reached for the button of his jeans. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely manage it. He seemed to understand what you were doing, and he lifted his hips, helping you. You pulled down the zipper. The sound was deafeningly loud in the quiet car.

You slipped your hand inside. The heat was overwhelming. You felt the coarse hair at the base of his cock, and then the silky, smooth skin of him. He wasn't wearing any underwear. The thought made you dizzy.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed as your fingers closed around him for the first time. He was thick and heavy, hotter than you imagined, the skin velvety and impossibly soft. He bucked into your fist again, a slow, deep thrust.

“‘S this okay?” you asked again, your voice trembling.

He answered by capturing your lips in another searing kiss, one that was all tongue and desperation and raw need. His hips started to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, fucking himself into your hand. It was the most erotic thing you had ever seen. You watched his face in the flickering light from the screen, the way his brows were furrowed in concentration, his lips parted, his breath coming in harsh pants.

You shifted, angling your body, your mind made up. You were going to taste him. The thought was a heady rush of power and pure, unfiltered desire. You started to lower your head, your gaze fixed on the beautiful, hard length of him in your hand.

“No, wait,” he choked out, his voice strained. His free hand flew to your shoulder, stopping you. “Baby, no. Don’t.”

You looked up, confused. The desperate need in his eyes was at war with something else, something that looked almost like panic. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Not… not that,” he panted, shaking his head. “You’re too good f’that. Too… pretty.” His cheeks were flushed a deep, dark red, visible even in the dim light. He was flustered, embarrassed, and so incredibly turned on it made your own body throb in response.

You understood then. This was a line for him, a different kind of intimacy. One he saw as degrading, not for him, but for you. It was chivalrous, and sweet, and utterly, maddeningly wrong.

A slow, confident smile spread across your face. You leaned up and kissed him, a quick, hard press of lips. “Michael,” you murmured against his mouth, your thumb stroking the slick head of his cock, making him gasp. “I want to. Let me do this f’you.”

His eyes fluttered open, wide and dark and full of a vulnerability that took your breath away. He searched your face, looking for any hint of pressure or pretense. He found none. He saw only your own desire, your own certainty.

“Please,” you whispered, the word a promise.

He let out a shuddering breath, a sound of complete surrender. He slowly, reluctantly, let his hand fall from your shoulder. Before you could move, he brought both hands up and covered his face, his fingers splayed over his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to watch, as if the reality of what was about to happen was too intense, too shameful, too perfect to witness.

It was the sexiest thing he had ever done.

You didn’t hesitate. You lowered your head and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip of him. He jerked, a full-body shudder wracking him, a choked-off cry escaping from behind his hands. You tasted salt and something uniquely him—clean and musky and intoxicating.

You took him into your mouth, slow and careful. You weren’t an expert, but you knew what you liked. You used your tongue, exploring the ridge, the sensitive vein pulsing on the underside. You took him deeper, until he hit the back of your throat, and you had to fight your gag reflex. He was big, bigger than you’d thought, and the weight of him on your tongue was a dizzying, primal thrill.

His reaction was immediate and overwhelming. His hips came off the seat, a helpless, involuntary thrust that pushed him even deeper. A string of broken, garbled sounds fell from his lips, muffled by his own hands. “Oh, god… oh, fuck… baby, what’re you… oh, don’t stop…”

You didn’t. You found a rhythm, bobbing your head, one hand wrapped around the base of him, stroking in time with your mouth. His other hand, the one that had been resting on your thigh, flew to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. He didn’t push or pull, just held on, a desperate anchor in a sea of pleasure.

The car felt impossibly small, the air thick and hot, filled only with the wet sounds of your mouth on him, the ragged symphony of his breathing, and the distant, muffled screams from the movie screen—a soundtrack to your own private, perfect horror.

You looked up. Through the gap in his fingers, you could see one eye, squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in an agony of ecstasy. He was completely undone. By you. The power of it was intoxicating, a drug stronger than anything you’d ever known.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking a little harder, and he cried out, a raw, guttural sound. “Wait,” he panted, his grip on your hair tightening. “Wait, I’m… M’ gonna…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. You felt him swell in your mouth, the rhythmic pulsing starting at the base of his cock. You didn’t pull away. You held on, taking everything he had to give.

His orgasm ripped through him with the force of a tidal wave. His back arched off the seat, a long, drawn-out groan tearing from his throat. He spilled into your mouth, hot and salty, and you swallowed it down, your own body clenching in a sympathetic wave of pleasure.

He collapsed back against the seat, boneless and trembling, a soft whimper the only sound he could make. You gently released him, pressing one last soft kiss to the sensitive, softening flesh before tucking him back into his jeans.

He slowly lowered his hands from his face. His eyes were open, staring unfocused at the roof of the car. His lips were parted, his face flushed a deep, sated red. He looked completely wrecked. He looked beautiful.

You crawled back up the seat, leaning against him, your head on his chest. His heartbeat was a frantic, wild drum against your ear, gradually slowing to a steadier rhythm. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw. He turned your face up to his and kissed you, a slow, deep, searching kiss. He could taste himself on your tongue, and he groaned, a low, possessive sound.

“You didn’t have t’do that,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“I wanted to,” you said, your own voice soft.

He shook his head, a look of utter awe on his face. “I never… nobody’s ever…” He trailed off, unable to find the words.

You just smiled, kissing him again. “Well, I have now.”

For a long moment, you just lay there in the cramped front seat, a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing. The movie droned on, a forgotten soundtrack to the quiet storm that had just passed. You could feel the frantic thump of Michael’s heart against your cheek, a steady rhythm that was gradually calming. His hand stroked your hair, a slow, repetitive motion that was both soothing and possessive.

“We can’t stay here,” he murmured, his voice still rough, a deep, gravelly vibration that you felt in your bones.

“Mmm,” you agreed, not moving. The thought of actually moving seemed like an insurmountable task. “Where are we gonna go?”

He was quiet for a second, thinking. Then you felt the shift in him, the return of that focused, determined energy. “The back,” he said, pushing himself up. “There’s more room.”

You stumbled out of the car, your legs feeling like jelly, the cool night air a shock against your heated skin. Michael was right behind you, his movements clumsy as he fumbled with the lock on the back door. It clicked open, and he practically fell into the backseat, reaching back to pull you in after him.

The back of the Gran Torino was a different world. It was wider, more private, the space shadowed and intimate. The glow from the screen was softer here, painting everything in shifting shades of grey and eerie green. You landed on your back on the worn vinyl, and he was on you in an instant, hovering over you on his hands and knees.

And then he just… stopped.

He looked down at you, and the expression on his face stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t just desire, it was reverence. Awe. As if he were looking at something he’d only ever dreamed of. His gaze swept over you, from your disheveled hair, to the way your shirt was rucked up, exposing the smooth skin of your stomach, to the dark, wanting look in your own eyes.

“Jesus,” he breathed, the word a sacred prayer. The sight of you, spread out beneath him, made something in him snap again. The shy boy was gone, obliterated by this raw, territorial hunger.

He lowered himself down, but not to kiss you. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. His mouth was a brand, hot and demanding. He pushed your shirt up higher, revealing your breasts once more. He took one in his mouth, and this time there was nothing hesitant about it. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the nipple, his teeth scraping the sensitive peak. You arched your back, a sharp cry escaping your lips, your hands flying to his hair, holding him to you.

He moved to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, lavishing it with an attention that was almost worshipful. All the while, one of his hands was sliding down your body, tracing the curve of your hip. He lifted his head, his dark eyes burning into yours. “I want—need t’taste you,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. A necessary truth.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulled, dragging them down your legs along in one smooth, decisive motion. He tossed them into the front seat, a gesture so final, so absolute, it made your stomach clench.

And then he was between your thighs, pushing them open with a firm, insistent pressure. He stared at your most private place, exposed and vulnerable to him in the dim light. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He looked up at you, a silent, devastating question in his eyes.

You answered by reaching down and tangling your fingers in his hair, guiding him down to where you needed him most.

The first touch of his tongue was a shock. A hot, wet, velvet stroke against your slick folds. A gasp tore from your throat. He didn’t start slow. He didn’t tease. He dove in, like a man dying of thirst who’d just found an oasis. He licked and sucked, his tongue exploring every inch of you, finding your clit and circling it with a maddening, deliberate pressure.

You were writhing on the seat, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth, unable to control the desperate sounds pouring from your lips. “Michael… oh god, Michael…”

He answered by sliding one long, smooth finger inside you. It was a different kind of fullness, a probing, intimate invasion that made you cry out. He curled it, finding that spot, that magical, hidden place inside you that made sparks flash behind your eyes. He added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching you, preparing you.

His tongue never stopped its relentless assault on your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming. The building pleasure was a tidal wave, rising higher and higher, threatening to pull you under completely. Your thighs started to shake, your whole body trembling on the verge of something enormous.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice a broken whimper. “Pleaseeedon’tstop…”

He didn’t. He sucked your clit into his mouth, a hard, rhythmic pressure, and thrust his fingers deeper, hitting that spot again and again.

The world shattered.

Your orgasm crashed over you, a violent, blinding wave of pure sensation. You cried out his name, a ragged, hoarse scream, your body arching off the seat. Wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through you, leaving you breathless and shaking. Michael stayed with you through it all, his tongue and fingers gentling, coaxing you down from the peak, until you were a boneless, quivering mess.

He slowly lifted his head, his face glistening with your arousal. He looked impossibly proud of himself, a smug, masculine satisfaction in his eyes that made your stomach flip. He crawled back up your body, capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, the musky, intimate flavor of your own desire.

He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you, his chest heaving. He was so hard again, a thick, rigid line pressing against your thigh. He reached over, stretching his long arm toward the glove compartment. He fumbled for a second, then the compartment popped open. He reached inside, his movements quick and efficient, and pulled out a small, square foil packet.

He tore it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of him, so confident, so in control, sent a fresh jolt of desire through your already spent body. He rolled the condom down his length, his movements practiced and sure.

He settled back between your thighs, nudging them apart with his knees. He took himself in hand, guiding the tip to your entrance. He was just there, poised at the brink. The head of his cock nudged against you, a hot, insistent pressure. He didn’t push in, not yet. He just held himself there, letting you feel him, letting you anticipate.

You looked up at him, at the fierce, wild look in his dark eyes. You were both panting, the air thick and heavy. This was it. The last wall between you was about to come crashing down.

You couldn't wait another second. You rolled your hips, a small, inviting movement. The tip of him slid inside, just the barest inch.

A low, guttural moan escaped your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

That single sound was his undoing.

It was like a trigger, a starting pistol for a race he was born to win. Your moan, a confirmation of shared desire, obliterated the last thread of his control. A harsh gasp tore from his throat, and his hips slammed forward.

He bottomed out in one hard, deep thrust.

The air was forced from your lungs in a sharp, pained cry. He was huge, a thick, stretching burn that was almost too much to take. He filled you completely, impossibly, a deep, possessive claim that left you gasping.

He froze, buried to the hilt inside you. His head fell forward, his forehead resting against yours. You could feel him trembling, a fine, high-voltage shudder running through his entire body. He was gasping, his breath hot and ragged against your face.

“Oh shit,” he choked out, the words a raw, panicked litany. “Oh shit. Oh shit. Ohssshit.”

He wasn’t moving. He was a statue of fear and lust, terrified he’d hurt you, terrified to move.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, a silent reassurance. You brought your hands up to his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you. His eyes were wide and wild, glazed over with a mixture of shock and overwhelming sensation.

“Michael,” you whispered, your voice a strained caress. “It’s okay. M’ okay.”

He stared at you, his chest heaving. He looked lost, adrift in a sea of sensation he wasn’t prepared for. He was inside you, but he was a million miles away.

You tightened your legs around him, a slow, deliberate squeeze. “Move,” you breathed, the command a gentle puff of air against his lips. “Please, Michael. Move f’me.”

Your words seemed to break the spell. The fear in his eyes receded, replaced by something darker, something more primal. He let out a long, shuddering breath, and then, slowly, hesitantly, he began to move.

He pulled out almost all the way, then pushed back in, a slow, deliberate slide that made you whimper. He did it again. And again. Each thrust was a little faster, a little harder, a little deeper. He was finding his rhythm, learning your body, learning what made you gasp and what made you cry out.

The initial pain was already melting away, replaced by a deep, aching pleasure that built with every stroke. The car was filled with the slick, rhythmic sounds of your bodies joining, the slap of skin on skin, the panting of your breaths mingling in the humid air. On the screen, a character let out a piercing scream, a distant, irrelevant echo to the real drama playing out in the backseat.

He shifted his angle slightly, and the next thrust hit that spot, that perfect, magical place inside you. A garbled cry tore from your throat, your back arching off the seat.

“There,” you gasped. “Right there.”

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He’d found it. He adjusted his position, his arms braced on either side of your head, and began to piston his hips, aiming for that same spot with every powerful thrust. He was fucking you in earnest now, a hard, relentless rhythm that stole your breath and shattered your thoughts. He was no longer the shy boy from the front seat. This was a different Michael—a predator, a conqueror, a man taking what was his.

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, watching your every reaction, cataloging every gasp and whimper. He brought one hand down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. He rubbed it in tight, hard circles, matching the rhythm of his hips.

The dual sensation was too much. The building pleasure was a coiled spring, wound tighter and tighter, ready to snap. “Michael… I’m… M’ gonna…” you stuttered, the words lost in a choked moan.

“Come f’me, baby,” he growled, his voice a low, rough command. “Please let me feel it.”

His words were your undoing. The spring inside you snapped, and your second orgasm ripped through you, even more powerful than the first. Your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down around him like a vise. You screamed his name, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

Your orgasm triggered his. He thrust into you one last, brutal time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a hoarse, guttural cry. You could feel him pulsing inside you, the condom a thin barrier to the heat of his release.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight crushing you into the seat, but you didn't care. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding him tight, wanting to feel every ounce of him. You were both slick with sweat, trembling and breathless in the aftermath.

For a long time, you just lay there, the only sounds your ragged breathing and the distant, tinny dialogue from the movie. He was still inside you, a heavy, comforting presence. You could feel his heartbeat, a frantic, slowing drum against your chest.

He finally pushed himself up, his arms trembling with the effort. He looked down at you, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. The wild, predatory look in his eyes was gone, replaced by something soft, something tender, something awestruck.

“Y’okay?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, unable to speak. You reached up and stroked his cheek, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

He carefully, slowly, pulled out of you. The loss was immediate, a hollow ache. He dealt with the condom, tying it off and tossing it into the floorboards with a clumsy, almost bashful movement. Then he was back, pulling you into his arms, arranging you so that you were curled up against his side, your head on his chest.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. He pulled a crumpled, old blanket from the floor and draped it over you both. It smelled of him and the car, a scent that was now inextricably linked with this feeling, this overwhelming, life-altering intimacy.

The movie was ending. The final, paranoid scenes played out on the distant screen, but neither of you was watching. You were lost in your own world, a small, warm, perfect bubble in the back of a Ford Gran Torino.

“I knew it would b’like this,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your hair.

You tilted your head back to look at him. “Like what?”

“Like… magic,” he said, a shy, beautiful smile gracing his lips. “Like comin’ home.”

Your heart swelled, a feeling so profound it almost hurt. You leaned up and kissed him, a soft, gentle press of lips. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Me too.”

You lay there in comfortable silence for a while longer, just listening to the steady beat of his heart. The credits on the screen began to roll, the upbeat, jazzy theme song a jarring counterpoint to the quiet, sacred moment you were sharing.

“Guess we should go,” he said, though he made no move to get up.

“Mmm,” you agreed, burrowing deeper into his arms. “Don’t wanna.”

He chuckled, a deep, happy rumble in his chest. “Me neither.” He kissed the top of your head. “But we gotta. Before they come around with th’ flashlight.”

Reluctantly, you started to disentangle yourselves. The air was cool on your skin, and you shivered. Michael noticed, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders as you fumbled with your clothes. You both dressed in the cramped space, a clumsy, intimate dance of tangled limbs and quiet laughter.

When you were both dressed, you didn't get out right away. He pulled you in for one last kiss, a slow, deep, thorough kiss that tasted of promise and everything that was yet to come.

“Okay,” he said, finally pulling away. “Okay. I’m gonna go start th’ car. You… you stay here for a minute. So you can… y’know.” He gestured vaguely at your face, a blush creeping up his neck.

You laughed, a soft, affectionate sound. “Okay, Mike.”

He climbed over the seat, a long, lanky movement that was all grace and limbs. The front door opened, then closed, and a moment later, the engine roared to life. The car rumbled to life, the headlights cutting through the darkness. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, to smooth down your hair, to wipe the dazed, blissful look from your face. You knew it was hopeless. You knew you looked exactly like a girl who had just been thoroughly, spectacularly fucked in the backseat of her boyfriend’s car.

And you couldn’t have been happier.

You slid over the seat, settling into the passenger side. He pulled out of the parking spot, the tires crunching on the gravel. He didn't turn on the radio. He just drove, the silence between you comfortable, filled with unspoken words.

As you turned onto the main road, the bright city lights flooding the car, he reached over and took your hand. He laced his fingers through yours, holding on tight. You looked over at him. His profile was sharp and beautiful in the passing lights, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

He caught you looking and turned his head, his dark eyes finding yours in the dim glow of the dashboard. He raised your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly.

“Come home with me,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A continuation of what had started in that darkened parking lot.

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

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