He took her face between his hands. “Remember I said being on top’s a state of mind.” With the flat of one hand, he smoothed her hair back. “Are you on top, really on top?”
She didn’t want to win, didn’t feel the need to prove anything, wasn’t afraid of what she might lose to him, and didn’t care about maintaining walls. Not this time. Settling against him, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think I am.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Put me inside you.” Then he took her lips fiercely.
It was so easy. He filled her up. He shaped their rhythm.
“Touch yourself.”
He tipped his head to the side and bent to watch her rub herself as his cock slipped in, then out. He kept the beat with his hands guiding her bottom.
“Does it feel good?”
“Ooh.” The sound he loved was all she could manage.
She rocked in his lap, keeping her hand still so that she worked herself with the movement of her own body. Strobe lights beat against her eyelids, now closed, and Witt murmured erotic encouragement in her ear, against her hair. Then he slammed their bodies together, thrust up to her heart, and came with her name on his lips. The throb inside her, his warm breath at her throat, the pulse of her clit against her fingers, and the rough cry of her name in his voice sent her spiraling into a starfield.
He held her when she collapsed against him. “Are you crying?” he asked against her hair.
“Of course not. I’m sweating. That was hard work.”
“I love you.”
She smoothed her hands down his arms. “I love you, Witt.”
Those same arms crushed her against him. A moment later, his breath ruffled the wisps of hair at her temples. “Even though you won the bet and everything.” He paused, took a deep breath, and she felt him smile into her hair. “I still want the blowjob.”
Chapter Thirty
“Does this feel good?” Cameron buried his face between her legs. Max moaned, gasped, and tried to nod.
“Does this feel bad?”
Nothing would feel bad as long as he didn’t stop. Close, so close. Arching from the mattress, she wanted to lose herself in mindless abandon.
His tongue swirled. “What about control?”
Jesus, stop talking.
He blew on her. “What about shame?”
There could never be shame when she wanted this as badly as he did, when refusing his gift would have hurt him, when she loved him, loved making love with him, loved the intimacy and the sharing, even sharing the bathroom, and, “Ohmygod, I’m coming.”
She cried out as he held her atop the precipice for longer than she thought her body could stand. Coming down, he started all over again. With his tongue, his fingers, his lips.
Somewhere in the not so far off land of Oz, the Munchkins started singing about following the yellow brick road. Cameron’s voice joined them.
Max opened her eyes and struggled to her elbows. She lay naked in the back seat of a Rolls Royce. The Rolls Royce of yesterday’s dream. She smelled poppies and sunlight and through the front window, above the cracked dashboard, the yellow brick road stretched toward the horizon. Shame didn’t exist in the Emerald City, and that’s where she had to go.
Cameron stroked her thighs. “Follow where the road leads, Max. Follow your dreams.”
The dream—Max never doubted what it was—changed. A freeway. Her freeway, 101. She now sat, fully dressed, behind the wheel of the old car. The odometer still read 666, but the tears in the leather upholstery were wider and deeper, delving down into the cushioning and the springs beneath.
With the roar of the planes overhead, the San Jose Airport came up on her right, as before. The car exited at the next ramp, circled the clover leaf, then rode over the freeway.
“Remember,” Cameron whispered, “remember it all.” The ghostly echo of his tongue between her legs was a burst of joy rather than shame. “Everything, sweetheart.” He sounded like Witt.
Nighttime now, not like before. No traffic on the empty streets. A digital clock on the dash, where none should have been on a car that old, flashed one hour past midnight. First light, left turn. Second right. First left. Right side, warehouse, driveway. The car stopped at the locked gates. Then the car was on the inside, she on the outside. The license plate glittered in black and red neon.
4WDY452. It didn’t make sense; the car was too old for that configuration. Yet...
“Remember,” Cameron urged though she didn’t need the nagging.
She repeated the directions, the name of the exit, the time. She didn’t have to repeat the license number. She would never forget it, just as she couldn’t forget her promise to Wendy.