Eating Out Pt. 02

You thank the server with a charming smile, toss a few bills on the table, and are already sliding out of the booth with purpose. Your hand never leaves mine, tugging me up and out with you--fast enough to make my head spin, slow enough to feel deliberate.

The air outside hits us in a wave, and I can still feel you--on my skin, between my thighs, in the damp heat building at my core. We walk toward the car, your hand on my lower back like you're guiding a prize. You glance behind us once, smirking when you catch our nosy little friend watching from inside the restaurant.

"Let's give him something to remember," you murmur, already pressing the button to unlock the car.

You reach the passenger door before me, pulling it open like a gentleman--only your version of manners comes with mischief. As I step forward, your hand is on my waist, turning me just slightly before I bend. My short skirt rides up naturally, teasing just enough to make your breath catch.

And there it is. The plug. Sparkling under the overhead lot lights like a secret just for you. You let out a low groan, one hand steadying my hip, the other ghosting up under the hem of my skirt like you might take me right there. your fingers drag over the already damp skin between my folds and you press a kiss to my temple. "This should give him something to fantasize on..." You smack my ass in response to me grinding into your palm. "Get in."

As you round the front of the car, you glance back at the restaurant--slow, deliberate--and spot him watching through the glass. His drink's been replaced with a check, untouched. You flash him the smallest, smug nod, a silent acknowledgment that he'll be thinking about this moment for the rest of the night.

Then you're slipping in behind rhe wheel. You close the door watching me shift in my seat to straighten out my skirt.

Once we're both in the car and doors are shut, you turn to me, all teasing gone from your voice. It's low. Commanding.

"Take care of it."

My breath catches. "Here?"

Your hand finds my thigh--warm, steady, a gentle squeeze and release. "You'll listen. And you won't stop until I say."

I squirm in my seat, already lifting my skirt. The plug shifts with every move, keeping me on edge. Your hand never moves higher, just stays there on the meat of my thigh. Squeezing. Releasing. Controlling the pace without ever touching more than that.

"Start slow," you instruct, your voice like gravel and honey. "One finger."

My hand moves between my thighs, fingers grazing the slick heat waiting for me. I bite my lip as I obey, slipping one finger in, breath catching. You don't look. You keep your eyes on the road.

"Wider. I want you to feel how much you're dripping."

I whimper softly, adjusting my angle, sliding in deeper. You squeeze my thigh. "Good girl."

"Now circle your clit. Two fingers."

I obey again, my body a livewire. Your hand tightens when my breath hitches, loosens when I start moving faster. You control everything--speed, rhythm, pressure--with nothing more than your voice and that pulsing hand on my leg.

At the next red light, a car pulls up beside us. Music bumping. Someone from the back seat glances over doing a double take.

"Don't stop," you say, voice low but sharp. "Look at me. Keep going."

I keep my fingers moving, one hand slipping from my clit to grip your thigh for balance. You finally glance over at me, and something in your expression makes my whole body ache. Possessive. Proud.

The passenger in the next car is still looking. Can't tell what he sees. Can't not see how flushed I am. You slowly reach up, brush a hand through my hair, and lean in to kiss my temple.

"She's mine," you whisper just loud enough for him to maybe catch it. Then the light turns green.

You take the next turn slower than needed, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other still heavy on my thigh. I'm trying not to moan--not just from the pace you've set, but from the thrill of the streetlights sliding across my bare skin. My fingers are wet, desperate, but obedient.

"Don't chase it," you warn, your voice silk over steel. "I know what you sound like when you're close. I want you just under that. Ride the edge."

I pant softly, biting down on my bottom lip to keep from whining. Every part of me is flushed and aching. The plug presses deeper as I shift in my seat, and your next command lands sharp in my ear.

"Now--three fingers. Stay slow."

My eyes flutter shut. It's too much and not enough. You're not even watching me, not really, and that makes it worse--better. All I can do is follow orders and burn for you.

The city glows past the windshield, but in this car, I'm in a different world. Yours.

"Tell me what it feels like."

"Full," I breathe, voice trembling. "Tight. Wet. I can't--"

Your hand grips my thigh, not hard but final. "You can. But you don't get to finish."

I let out the smallest sob, hips twitching as I ease my fingers out. You glance at me then, finally, your jaw tight with restraint.

"Good. Now rub your clit again--just two fingers. Gentle. I want you soaking my seat."

The way you say it is so calm, like it's a casual request and not a demand that twists something deep inside me. I obey. Again. My hand moves slowly, trembling against the heat between my legs. My thighs shake as I ride the wave again and again, never cresting.

Another red light.

This time, it's a quiet stop. And your eyes finally rake over me. My back arching as my hips are desperately pushing into my fingers and I'm having to rip my hand away to avoid slipping over the edge.

Your hand slides up--just once--trailing a single finger across my soaked skin. Then it returns to my thigh, grip firmer than before.

"Keep going." Your fingers dig into my thigh urging me on.

Tears prick my eyes, not from pain but from being so close to bliss, over and over again, only to be pulled back. I do as I'm told, teeth clenched, muscles trembling.

"Can I come?" I whisper, desperate.

You glance over. That same possessive smirk from earlier.

"No."

We take the rest of the ride with only my pained moans keeping us company. You can feel my thighs quaking with almost every touch, everything is so fucking sensitive

The garage door begins its slow grind upward as you pull into the driveway, headlights bouncing off the walls of the narrow space. My fingers are still between my thighs, aching, twitching, waiting for permission. I've been holding back for blocks--soaked, flushed, nearly crying.

You ease the car forward, kill the engine, and the silence that follows is deafening.

"Hands off," you say, firm. "Wait for me."

I whimper as I pull away from myself, shaking. I can barely breathe. My legs won't stop trembling. You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly, methodically, then lean across the center console, hand sliding beneath my chin.

"You've been so good," you murmur. "So wet. So desperate." You kiss me--soft, claiming--and I melt into it, into you.

Then you pull back and open your door. The sudden sound of it slamming into the garage echoes, and I flinch.

You walk around the car slowly, purposefully, and open my door.

"Out."

The air hits me like a slap as I stumble onto the cold concrete, skirt still bunched around my hips, thighs slick and shaking. You press me back against the car, hood still warm, and your fingers find the mess between my legs.

"Goddamn," you mutter under your breath. "Look at you. A fucking mess."

You drop to your knees.

I gasp, eyes wide. "In here? The neighbors--"

"Are too nosy to mind their own business," you growl, and your mouth is already on me before I can finish the protest.

It's not soft. Not slow. It's brutal. Precise. Possessive. The garage hums with the threat of exposure--the open slats in the door, the sound carrying, the faint glow of someone's porch light bleeding through the cracks.

I cry out once--too loud--and you slap my thigh, just sharp enough to ground me.

"Quiet."

I try. I fail. My fingers grip the edge of the hood so hard I swear I hear metal creak. Your tongue circles my clit with practiced, punishing rhythm, while your thumbs press my thighs wider, forcing me to take it.

"Please," I sob. "Please let me--"

You pull back just enough to speak, lips brushing my slick skin. "One."

That's all I get.

And it hits like a freight train--loud, messy, uncontainable. I clamp a hand over my mouth as the orgasm rips through me, my knees giving out as I collapse against the car. You don't stop right away. You lick through it until I'm gasping, twitching, overstimulated and boneless.

Then you stand.

Your hand comes under my chin again, lifting my dazed eyes to meet yours.

"Mine," you whisper, and kiss me--hard, wet, tasting of me.

"Now get inside. I'm not done with you yet."