Page 77 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
A pleasured scream sounds from the direction of the Ford across the lot and we grin at each other.
“This is fun, having a bit of an audience,” I murmur, snatching my boxers from the floor as Bernadette scoots back, and dragging them back on. “I mean, if that’s something you’re into, we’ve got a built-in one back home, now don’t we?”
Bernie’s eyes sparkle, and I wonder if she hasn’t thought about all the fun we could get up to together. Different partners, different groups, different … arrangements. I wouldn’t mind being watched, the way Victor did that first night, when he filmed us. I’d like to do that again except, you know, without getting kicked out.
“You put your underwear back on,” she hazards, like she actually thinks I’m going to nut and run. Nah. I might’ve been a man-whore, but I was never that sort.
“Yeah, but only so I’m not flashing bare ass and getting myself arrested.” I grab her and she lets out a small gasp as I flip her body and pin her underneath me. My mouth finds Bernadette’s, sucking her lip between my teeth and biting down gently, just enough to make her squirm. “You yourself said it: if she can find a trumped-up charge to bring one of us, Police Girl will do it.”
“And why, exactly, would your bare ass be showing?” she whispers as I grin against her mouth, pressing close and encouraging her lips to part for my tongue. I’ve never tasted a girl so sweet with such an acidic mouth. Like, she can pop off like the best of the Prescott bitches, but when we kiss, and I close my eyes, I imagine that we’re just a pair of high school sweethearts from the fifties, destined to grow old together.
Feels like we could be, up here on ‘Hookup Point’, in this fifties car. Shit, even the Ford parked across the lot is from the fifties. Add in that leather Havoc jacket she was wearing, like she’s one of the Pink Ladies from Grease, and our favorite drive-in, Wesley’s. The soda fountain in south Prescott …
I break away briefly to change the music from sultry rock to classic fifties hits.
“What on earth is this?” Bernadette asks as I start “Where the Boys Are” by Connie Francis.
“Just roll with it, Blackbird,” I tell her, pushing her back onto the seat with a hand on her chest. I undo those sexy pink cigarette pants of hers—also, incidentally a fashion from the fifties—and yank them off along with her panties. It’s full dark now, the city lights sparkling in the valley below us.
You’d never know, looking at us now, that we survived a school shooting less than two weeks prior. Or that we’re in the middle of a gang war. No, up here on the Butte, everything else fades away. We’re just two teenagers in the backseat of a pink Caddy with heated bodies and wandering hands.
“Blackbird,” I start again as I part her sweet, white thighs with my tattooed hands. Bernie moans and lets her head fall back, completely unashamed at exposing the swollen plump heat of her cunt to me. My own breath catches and my lashes flutter. I can already feel blood rushing to my cock as I stare down at her, wearing Victor’s old Prescott High tank, looking like a princess from another decade. “Those nights at the homeless shelter with you were some of the best days in my entire childhood.”
“Don’t say that,” she whispers, but it’s the truth and I’m not ashamed. “You have no idea what a comfort you were to me,” she adds unexpectedly as I drop a single finger to the sweet curls between her legs. I’ve never liked girls that shave it all off. Kinda bothers me. Like, God or Goddess or Mother Nature put hair here for a reason, right? I run my fingers over those pale curls, teasing my finger down the slick line between Bernie’s thighs until she parts her lips in a sexy pout. “For years, I thought about you whenever I got scared on a stormy night.”
“No,” I breathe, because I just can’t take hearing that. It’s too much. It’s far too much, more than someone like me deserves. “Blackbird …” My thumb finds the swollen nub of her clit, sliding over it as she throws her arms back, hands clutching at the edge of the car behind her.
With my other hand, I tickle the softly dimpled flesh of her inner thighs, my eyes drinking in her perfect curves, the frantic rise and fall of her breasts as she closes her own eyes and pants in desperation and need. I can’t resist; I drop my mouth down between her thighs, sliding my tongue between her folds and swirling it around her clit.
She curves her legs over my shoulders, trapping me where she wants me and giving me the privilege of paying off my debt. My hands curve underneath her, cupping and kneading the rounded perfection of her ass as I taste that tart-sweetness of her cunt. There’s nothing else in the world like it, that soft fragrance, that dulcet tang on my tongue.
