Page 32 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I make my way over to the red and black Pantera in the center of the room, finding the door unlocked and smiling as I open it. As soon as my eyes drop to that pretty leather seat, I can feel my cock stirring behind my jeans.
“Fuck.” I resist the urge to tear the knife from my boot and stab the shit out of that seat. Just the thought that it might’ve cupped that plump, round ass, that swollen pussy … I grit my teeth and climb in before I can think better of it, using the supplies I brought with me to hotwire that pretty, little car. It’s as simple as that. The Pantera roars to life and I slip back out, sprinting over to the button on the wall that opens the garage door.
The smell of burning rubber and gasoline fills the garage as I hit the throttle and tear out of the door with about an inch of clearance. That girl—Jennifer—comes stumbling out the front door of the office, her mouth agape, eyes wide and fearful as I spin purposefully in the gravel and send rocks and mud flying her way.
Her fuck-toy comes out after her, yanking his pants into place just in time to get a face full of dirt.
I tear through the parking lot and down the road toward the gatehouse, getting up close and personal with the ass-end of a truck as it clears the gate, and then zooming around it to head for the track.
All week, I’ve studied the patterns of the police in this area. Other than the officers at the school, I haven’t seen a single one. Not one police cruiser or motorcycle or bicycle cop. Nothing.
I don’t bother with shortcuts or alleys or backroads, taking the most direct route to the track.
As I’m driving, her smell hits me, this disturbingly sweet note mixed with musk and a bitter tang on the back of the tongue that has me cursing and reaching down to adjust myself with my left hand.
Don’t do it, Widow. Don’t let her get to you. Not after all these years, all this time.
As soon as I walked in the door of Prescott, I could feel the eyes of the other students. The boys were wary, but the girls? I could’ve had any one of them if I wanted.
But I don’t.
If I go to my grave without fucking a single person, so what? It’d be preferable, I think, to letting myself become a deviant like the rest of the world.
Even as I’m telling myself that, I can feel the leather under my ass, can imagine Scarlett sitting here, can see her high-heeled foot on the clutch. With a snarl, I jerk the wheel and end up under the shade of some trees on the edge of the road leading to the track.
Within seconds, I’m spitting into my palm and my cock is in my right hand, my left gripping the steering wheel for dear life as I jerk and tug and twist. My eyes slide closed of their own accord, and then it’s just her scent and the feel of that leather seat beneath me.
I imagine that I’m the one who has Scarlett Force bent over and keening, that I’m holding her hips with one hand, the other tangled in her hair, that I’m fucking her so hard that she can feel me hitting her cervix
Over and over and over again.
Would she call my name out, beg me for more? Would she put a tampon in and ride that track with my hot seed trapped inside of her? Better yet, she could drive in a short skirt with no panties, my cum dripping all over the leather seat.
“Oh fuck, yes,” I groan, leaning back as I drag my unwilling spirit over the edge, my very willing body an anchor that threatens to trap me at the bottom of a dark, tempestuous sea.
With another moan, I find myself curling over, ab muscles clenching, balls tightening, cock throbbing and pulsing as jet after jet of white ropes spatter the steering wheel and dash.
“Shit.” I’m powerless to do a damn thing about the mess until I’m done, until my nuts are empty, and I’m cursing myself out as I yank my shirt off and swipe as much of my semen off as I can, wadding the fuckin’ thing up and throwing it into the passenger seat.
For a moment, I just sit there with my head on the steering wheel, panting and sweating and smelling Scarlett Force all around me.
I hate people who touch my things.
I once broke my cellmate’s arm for touching my toothbrush.
Yet this girl jacked my car? She took my fucking car?!
As soon as I turned fourteen, I started working menial jobs: kitchen jobs, janitorial duty, the commissary, and I saved every single cent. By the time I got out, I had just enough to grab the shell of my Stingray.
