She sits on me, unmoving—thinking I suppose. She can take all the time she wants. As long as I am inside her, she doesn’t even have to move. I push her hair away from her neck and lick the soft flesh. It’s tender and smooth just like her *. I continue to lick up her neck, across her jaw and to her ear.
By the time I make it there, she is moving. And I know it’s to the beat of a song. She is working my cock with the perfection of a stripper—but better. Any man who has ever had a lap dance has dreamed of what it would feel like if she rode his cock while she danced. I’m one of those men, but I’m no longer dreaming. Saylor Samson is dancing on my cock that is buried inside her while the lyrics of some song are in her head.
I feel my balls tighten and I’m hoping she releases soon, or I’m going to explode. My thumb finds her clit and it moves in time with her. She works me faster, and I know she is close. I pull my head out of her neck so I can watch her face. Her eyes are closed and she is moaning, her mouth hanging open. She has to look at me.
I’m fixing to tell her to open her eyes, but she reads my mind, like the fucking witch she is. Her eyes open wide and I’m lost in a deep sea of green as she comes around me. That’s all I need.
I’m pulsing inside of her, and her moans are so pleasing to my ears that I bite my lip to keep my own from interrupting. Her head falls to my shoulder as we both try to catch our breath. Fucking feels good. Coming feels better. But this is a different feeling. It’s more. I don’t know what that more is, but I like it.
—
We need food, a shower, and I need coffee, but I have a job. So, we head out toward Nevada, where a bigger problem than last night awaits. Like what in the hell I’ll do with Saylor when I get there. I glance at her in my mirror and she is looking to the left. I wish I could read her thoughts.
Suddenly I can’t wait any longer to hear her voice. I’ve only heard her talk a few times today but it wasn’t enough. And we need to discuss what happened last night.
I’m exiting and we haven’t been riding an hour. Waffle House seems like a good place to eat, and I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that it is the closest restaurant to us.
I find us a booth in the back where I can see my bike, and she sits across from me. I like this because I can look at her. Like I always do. Or stare. Whatever the hell you want to call it.
When the waitress comes, she ignores Saylor and looks at me. I find her unappealing, but I see the look of lust in her eyes. I can read her just like I can read Saylor. The only difference is when I see it on Saylor, my dick gets hard. When I see it on the waitress, it’s fucking annoying.
“Coffee and water,” I grumble, and she hasn’t even asked. But she is a waitress. What the fuck else does she want? When she turns to Saylor, her look of lust turns to distaste. If I hit women, I would slap her. Saylor just smiles and orders chocolate milk. It’s not surprising.
I watch Saylor look over the menu, and I try to figure out what she would want. My best guess is a chocolate chip waffle, or an egg-white omelet. I don’t know why these two things pop in my head, but they do. She likes chocolate, and even though she has proven to not be a health nut, I’m sure at some point she does eat healthy.
I’m still looking at her, trying to burn a hole into her mind, when the waitress returns. She is looking at me again and it pisses me off. Everyone knows, ladies first. What a fucking idiot. But we need to get on the road and I don’t want her to spit in my food.
“Steak and eggs. Medium on the steak, over-medium on the eggs.” I’m telling her this while I’m looking at Saylor. Her head is cocked to the side and she is eyeing me.
“Are you in my head?” she asks with a curious smile. I wish Saylor, I fucking wish. “Same for me,” she tells the waitress, and she doesn’t look at her either. I’m glad she can’t take her eyes off me.
“When I was little, my mom had this boyfriend and he would never let me order for myself. Even when I was old enough to know what I wanted, he would always order for me.”
I watch as she takes a sip of her milk, and I’m so happy she is talking that the waitress could shit in my food at this point and I wouldn’t care. “He always made me get a waffle. Just because I was a kid doesn’t mean I had a bad taste in food. So my mom and I went out once without him and she told me to get whatever I wanted, so I ordered what he always had. Steak. And I loved it.”
She laughs at the memory, but even her laughter can’t help this feeling that I am just like her mom’s boyfriend. Not that I would ever make her get a fucking waffle, but I did think that was what she wanted. Do I label her as an immature adult? Do I consider her childish? I mean, she did order chocolate milk.
“Why did you order that drink?” I really need to work on my tone.
“Because it’s chocolate milk.” I’m confused by her answer. She said it like her reason was obvious, and I don’t know what the fuck that means, and I don’t like her being so damn evasive. It’s a first for her.