Page 13 of Mating Theory
Soft laughter. “We did.”
I unlatch the seat belt and turn to face him. He looks miles away from that man earlier tonight, except I’m in the same position. Aren’t I? About to have sex with a stranger. I reach over to place my palm on his thigh. It’s not quite where he would want it, but it’s as close as I can bring myself right now. I squeeze gently, feeling muscle and heat. It’s awkward in a car. That’s what I learn in the next few minutes while I propel myself closer to him, while I press a clumsy kiss to his lips. He remains seated, hands dropped to his sides, head resting back. He doesn’t make any move to hold me, touch me. Fuck me. But he doesn’t push me away either. And when I manage to lick across his bottom lip, he sucks in a breath.
It would be so easy for him to reach for me, for him to turn a few degrees in my direction. Then I could pretend that we were two people making out. We had gone to the college football game. He bought me a large Coke and a pretzel as big as my face. I hung on his arm while he cheered on his team. After the game he brought me home and turned to kiss me good night. One kiss turned into another. We’d both be panting, urgent. The windows would turn foggy. That’s what I could pretend. Instead Sutton stays straight in his chair, watching me from beneath slitted eyes. He lets me fumble with the fabric of his slacks. At least he’s hard beneath them. Very hard. Very large. Enough to make me wince in anticipated pain. There’s no steam on the windows, because he isn’t breathing hard. He’s watching me make a fool of myself, stroking clumsily through the wool, trying to figure out how to please him. And failing.
“Do you make guys come like that?” he asks, all droll politeness.
“Yes,” I snap, even though it’s a lie. I pull my hand back, because clearly I was doing it all wrong. Despite his hard cock, I was doing it wrong. My words come out stiff. “If you want something different, you only have to ask.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Shadows hold him in a tight embrace. I see glittering eyes and full lips. A square chin with gold-dark scruff. “There’s something sweet about it. As if you never touched a cock before. But that can’t be true, can it?”
My cheeks heat, and I’m grateful for the darkness. “Of course not.”
“You make me feel like I’m in high school again.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
His thumb lifts my chin. “Tell me you aren’t in high school.”
“I’m not in high school,” I recite.
“Seriously, Ashleigh. I’m going to lose my shit.”
“I’m not. Really. God.” Of course I’m not in high school because I dropped out six months ago. Hard to go to school when you don’t have a place to sleep. Or running water. I don’t bother telling him that. Let him think I’m a couple years older if it helps him sleep at night. It doesn’t matter whether I’m seventeen or twenty-seven when the lights are off.
Some men are gentle. Some are rough. All of them want the same thing—my mouth wrapped around their dick. Sutton? I don’t think he’s different. Not when he stiffens. A groan fills the warm vehicle. My mind’s already going to that faraway place where nothing and no one can touch me. I reach for the hard, throbbing heft of him in his slacks, and he grunts. “What the fuck, Ashleigh?”
I don’t bother stopping, because he can catch up. He must know what I’m going to do. A kiss. No one pays two hundred dollars so they can lick my lips. He wants this kind of kiss. I feel his desire hot and thick in the air. My fingers find his zipper and tug, tug, tug.
He grasps my wrist, forcing me to stop. “I said, what the fuck?”
My gaze meets his. “I’m doing what you want.”
“A blowjob in my driveway? No, sweet thing. Not even close.”
He doesn’t want a blowjob? Well, he’s the first one. Panic beats against my rib cage. He’ll want something I don’t know how to give. Empty, brainless sex. That’s what I’ve been taught. He wants that strange kissing and feeling and aching deep in my core.
Home was a beige house in suburbia. Ours had white crown molding and granite countertops. Those are the things that made it a nice house. An expensive house. Those things are nothing like this. Columns of stone and wood stand like sentries around the front door. Windows with little hand-welded arches march across the entrance hall. Thick plants of wood are knotted and gouged and scraped in an agreeable texture. This is not a nice house. It’s a ranch-style mansion, every piece strong and rough and beautiful. Like the man who closes the door behind us. A wide-open floor plan reveals multiple seating areas, a ten-foot dining table, a kitchen with bright red appliances. My attention is drawn by a bank of tall, wide windows at the back of the house. A view of rolling hills in the moonlight takes my breath away. And is that—“Do you have horses?”
