#rated e!

Four years later, though, Art is not the same man he was at 18. He’d barely been a “man” back then, at all. He’s still got the same hair even though his both mother and his coach have told him to cut it, and he’s still a nuisance with gum in his mouth. 

But he’s not as passive as he used to be; as unsure of himself. Which has seriously come in handy. He’s annoyed he didn’t get some fucking confidence years ago. 

(He sometimes dares to think that if he had, he would’ve been the one to win her number. But that’s beside the point.)

It’s especially come in handy tonight. He can tell Tashi’s noticed the change, impressed by it. She’d shown up to his training earlier than day, having just arrived in Cincinnati as Katerina’s assistant coach for the tournament. Art hadn’t seen her in six months, not since the Open last summer. It was the longest they’d been apart since meeting each other and there’s a chance that it drove him insane. 

And yet, this morning, there she was, waving at him shyly from the side of the court. He noticed her hair first — she must’ve cut it. It looks shorter and it’s incredibly pretty and he doesn’t realize he’s staring until his coach barks out his name in frustration. 

After catching up after his training ended, they’d settled on dinner at the Applebee’s down the road from the hotel. He’s giddy, for once, which is unfamiliar to 23-year-old Art but all-too-familiar to the version of him who was sucking on the sweet spot below her ear on that shitty motel bed at 18. 

Dinner goes well. She looks fucking beautiful and she’s wearing a muted blue dress with these platform heels that make her almost as tall as him. They get beers and a brownie after dinner and all-too-soon they’re walking out to his Range Rover and he really wants to kiss her. 

When he tells her just that, she moves closer to him until their faces are inches apart. Just like the first time, she’s the one who leans in first, but unlike last time, he knows how to kiss her back smoothly and passionately and with all the experience he’d built up at Stanford. At first it’s sort, sweet, romantic, and they’re both so focused on it that when the crash of glass bottles sounds across the street, they’re startled and jump apart dramatically. 

She giggles when it happens, and fucking hell it’s the most wonderful sound he’s ever heard in his life. So wonderful that he has to kiss her again, but this time with more intensity, just in case there’s a way for him to communicate how in love with her he probably is without saying it too early. 

Tashi lets out a little sigh or a whimper or whatever the little noise is — whatever; it’s fucking hot, and his dick suddenly his jeans feel too tight. But he needs to hear it again. 

Art boldly slides both his hands down from her back to her ass, firmly squeezing her over the fabric of her dress. Fuck the fabric of her dress. He decides it’s now in his way: he has the assertiveness now to do everything he wanted to four years ago and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t. 

This means slipping his hands to the back of her knees, then sliding them up, up her thighs with clear intention and pulling the hem of her dress up with them until they reach their destination and grab at.the bare skin of her ass, barrier-free this time. And fuck him, Tashi literally whines against his lips when he does this. It’s such a perfect sound that he can’t help but back her up against his car and slip his tongue into her mouth. 

He keeps one hand firmly groping her ass while the other moves to the back of her head so he can dig his fingers into her hair, guiding her head to tilt so he can ravish her neck and that one sweet spot again. He’s missed it very, very much. This does the trick, and now her pretty sighs and gasps are happening every time she breathes. 

“God, Art,” she moans desperately, rolling her hips against his blatant hard on, hooking her leg around him. It dawns on him that he’s got her legs spread against his car in a fucking Cincinnati parking lot, and fuck, if someone were to see them, they’d get a good view of the panties she’s wearing. 

Matter of fact, he doesn’t know what panties she’s wearing. He breaks away from her neck, taking in the view of her flushed cheeks and closed eyes as his travel downwards to her spread thighs. 

Art lets out a guttural groan when he sees the lavender-coloured lace.that is literally just lace. He might die here. He’s probably going to die, right here in an Applebee’s parking lot in the middle of fucking Ohio. 

(She giggles at his reaction, pulling his face up to kiss him again with her hands in his hair and he changes his mind, because he definitely can’t die if it means not hearing the sound of it as many times as he possibly can. It’s his new addiction.)

The best thing he can do is kiss her back as fiercely as possible, once again, this time finding the strength in him to greedily rut his hips against her slowly. It’s so much more delicious when he knows how thin her panties are; how sensitive she might be. He gets what he decides is confirmation of this when he increases his pace just a bit and she drops her head back in a moan and a curse and his name. 

One of his hands have found its way to her inner thigh, and it almost surprises Art as much as it does Tashi when his fingertips reach the hem of the lace, lightly tracing it without crossing a boundary. 

Oh, that’s right. They’re in a parking lot, still. He’d almost forgotten. 

That fact is why he’s hesitating to sneak his fingers inside her panties; it might totally cross a line and most people wouldn’t want to get fingered against a car where anyone could see. She’d have to be insane to actually—

“Touch me, Art,” Tashi whines desperately, glancing down at his teasing fingertips ghosting the delicate fabric. 

Fucking hell. The fact that he hadn’t just cum from hearing her say that is miraculous. He’ll be the luckiest man alive if he doesn’t completely embarrass himself when he finds out what she sounds like when she cums.

(He really shouldn’t think about that, actually. That’s dangerous on its own.)

Holding his breath, he slips his fingers into her panties and the instant wetness he feels has him cursing aggressively under his breath. “Fucking Christ, Tashi. You’re so wet for me. Jesus.” His fingers drag through her folds and circle her swollen clit — how the fuck is she so turned on already — before his pointer and middle fingers slide inside her quickly. Like he needs it. And her body accepts him like she does, too.

When Art’s fingers are stuffed all the way inside her, Tashi releases a breath she’d been holding, and it sounds like a pretty sob. She does this again when he flexes his forearm and starts to fuck her on his fingers after a few seconds of taking the sight of her in. “You gonna be okay?” He asks carefully, looking back up at her eyes. He knows he’s on the brink of losing his goddamn mind and needs to know if she wants this as bad as he does. 

“Uh huh. Yes.” Tashi nods impatiently. “Need  it. C’mon, Art.”

Yep, she’s just as desperate as he is and  this might be the most on top of the world he’s ever felt. And he won the French Open last year.

He moves faster, now, cursing at the noise his fingers make when they drill into her, at the squirming of her hips against the Range Rover, at the stuttered gasps coming out of her every few seconds. “You look so fucking hot right now, angel.” Words escape him before he even processes them mentally. It’s just too intense of a moment. “Sound so pretty when you wanna cum.”

His words make her moan louder. So he tries his luck. 

“Tell me how it feels, sweetheart,” he urges. 

“Mm-hmm. Good, so good, Art, just don’t stop.”

“Does it make it hotter for you, then? Your dress pulled up like this against my car? Where anyone could drive by?”

She gasps, and he thinks he’s ruined it until a gush of wetness coats his fingers even more. “You’re gonna make me cum,” she cries. 

He’s so hard that he has to grind his hard, denim-covered cock against her upper thigh while he quickens his pace; roughening his thrusts. When she sobs in response, he almost loses it. 

Art curls his fingers further and his other hand moves to pin her hip against the car. “Yeah?”

Tashi nods in abandon, meeting his eyes with moist ones as her hips squirm even more against him. “Yes, yes, yes, yes—“

He quickly moves his hand from her hip to the side of her neck, tiling her chin up with his thumb so he can watch her cum while he tries desperately to remember every single thing about this moment, everything. 

“Cum for me, angel. All over my fingers. You’ve done so fucking well.” He groans, watching her intensely, pleasantly surprised by her ability to maintain eye contact despite being so thoroughly fucked. She’s so good for this. Good for him. 

His words are what get her there; the final push as she  clenches around him like a fucking vice and  sobs so pretty, babbling nonsense mostly, mixing in a gasp of his name every few seconds. “Fuck, look at you,” Art moans, grinding his crotch against her thigh subconsciously now. 

As Tashi comes down from her high, panting hard, she manages a wrecked, “I need you inside me.”

Oh, Christ. 

“Fuck, I want to fuck you so, so bad, Tash, but we’re still in the—fuck— the parking lot.” His response is rudely interrupted by her hand cupping his cock over his jeans, running her thumb up the side of the imprint of the shaft. 

Her next words have a daring, determined tone that he’s decidedly just as obsessed with, the same way he is with her laugh and sigh and pleasured sob. 

“So what?” 

She’s going to be the fucking death of him.