“Touch yourself,” he begged, reaching forward to pull my bra down, fully exposing me to him. “I love watching the way your body moves when I’m inside you.”
Holding on to my boobs, I pinched my nipples. He liked to watch. I filed that away for later.
“You like this?” I asked, biting my finger coyly.
“I love this.” And he drove into me hard, hitting spots that were making me climb high, so high, wound tight and strung out.
“Fuck, Oscar, that’s it!”
He wasn’t sure and steady anymore. He was erratic, fired up and frantic to make me come. “You make . . . me . . . crazy,” I panted, loving the feeling of him losing control.
Just as I was about to come, he slid both hands to the clasps on the garters and snapped them. “Give it to me.”
I did. Jesus Christ I did, crying out his name on the side of the road, while he chased down his own orgasm, pumping deep inside of me, his own cries matching mine in the dark night.
It was not lost on me that I’d added my own sounds to the country soundscape . . .
Chapter 15
After the scene in the truck, there was a similar scene in his bedroom, this time with the two of us ping-ponging off the walls as we each tried to gain the upper hand, ending up on his bed with first me on top, then him, then finally me once more, with him spinning me at the last minute so he could watch me ride him in reverse, the better to watch that great big ass bounce on my dick . . .
Well, he had promised that would happen.
And then we collapsed. I’ve never faulted a man for being deep into the z’s ninety seconds after really good sex, because I do that, too. All that beautiful tension, all that wonderful energy that’s trapped inside and then goes shooting out into the universe . . . it can be tiring.
But when Oscar fell asleep after the second round, I was unable to sleep. This was becoming a problem.
It was too quiet—so quiet you could literally hear a pin drop.
I stayed in bed for a long time, listening to his deep, even breathing as he slept. I wrapped myself around him, seeking the comfort and warmth that often leads to a great night’s sleep. I nestled against his side, throwing a leg over and draping an arm, resting my head on his powerful chest.
Didn’t work.
I tried wrapping him around me, rolling to my side and dragging him with me, forcing the spoon of the century when his deadweight arm fell across me, and I tucked it around me, his powerful hips nuzzled against my bottom, cocooning me in Oscar . . . and reminding me of a position we’d yet to try but that I was dying to. That led to some rather colorful daydreams, but as far as sleep?
Didn’t work.
I kicked a leg out from under the quilt, then an arm, then finally rolled over again and hung my bum over the side—but nothing was working.
Too. Fucking. Quiet!
An hour later and I was propped up in the bed, Oscar snoring away next to me looking adorable and full of restorative z’s, and I was playing solitaire on my phone while catching up on my favorite celebrity Twitter feeds.
An ad popped up for a new game involving sheep counting, and it gave me an idea. I quickly pulled up the app store, typed in sound machine, and there were literally hundreds of white-noise downloads, just waiting for me and Mr. Sandman.
Let’s see, what have we got?
Whispering Meadow? No.
Twilight Sunset? Not.
Rain on Tin Roof? Under the subset of Rain, also including Rain on Umbrella, Rain on Car, Rain on Vinyl Tent. Nope, not a one. But now I had to pee.
After scurrying to the bathroom and back, I quickly dove back under the covers, and finally stumbled upon some appropriate sounds.
Cityscape. Now we’re talking.
You had your Restaurant Sounds, your Before the Theater Begins, Central Park Joggers, and the very intriguing New York City Streets.
I downloaded it, settled back against the pillows, and listened with a satisfied grin as the sounds of cabs honking, doors shutting, trucks rumbling, people chatting, and far-off sirens wailed. I grinned as my city enveloped me in the country, and I finally laid my head gently down to sleep . . .
Until Oscar sat straight up in bed, scrambling for the bat he kept next to his nightstand, and crashed to floor, bat held over his head and ready to do battle.
I peered over the side to where he was just as he peered up over the bed, the two of us knocking skulls and further confusing him.
“What the hell is that!” He rubbed his head, looking wildly around the room. “Is there an ambulance outside? And a . . . is that . . . it sounds like people clinking glasses?”
“It’s New York City Streets—an app?” I answered, sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed, rubbing my own quickly forming goose egg. “You know, background noise for sleeping?”
“Why would anyone need background noise to sleep?” he asked, still holding the bat.