We get back on the road after lunch, and it’s my turn to drive. I can’t stop thinking about Kirsten and her doubts. I’m desperate to text her, but I keep my phone safely on the dash with the playlist going instead of checking messages. Henry and I don’t talk much since he starts reading an actual book, looking fucking hot while doing it too—annoying.
Just as it begins to get dark sometime after five Henry falls asleep, and I try not to worry about Kirsten. Just around the time we reach Omaha, there’s a bunch of interstate exits and I try to focus on staying on the I-80. Then, my phone chimes, and I look down to see a picture of a crying Kirsten on my screen.
“Oh shit.”
Texting and driving is so dangerous, especially at night on the freeway in a busy city. I’m aware of this, but my best friend can’t be crying in Vegas without me. She can’t. So I grab my phone and swipe it open.
There’s a long message that I don’t bother to read. I just voice-to-text her a quick, “I love you. I’m driving. Will call in a few.”
From the gist of the text, it looked like her and Andy had talked it over, so I tried not to worry too much. I manage to make the right exit and end up on the quiet freeway, letting my mind wander as we forge ahead.
I can’t seem to stop thinking about what happened with Ben. How this year has started and where I’ve ended up, now single and watching my best friend get married. When did this happen? When did I get to this point where I’m starting to worry about my own future?
Next to me, Henry snores on his pillow. I peek a glance at his dark jeans, tight around his thighs. There’s a pretty obvious bulge in his crotch, and yeah I know it’s terrible of me to look, but I can’t help it. Plus, I’m bored and the light from the radio is just enough to highlight the area. I get a vision of him in my head and what he must look like naked. I bet he looks great naked. I bet his arms and pecs are full without being huge. I wonder what those washboard abs would feel like under my fingers, and how much hair he has on his chest. Is it weird that I sort of hope it’s a lot?
I always thought I’d be more into the hairless guys, but the idea of running my fingers through his manly scape sounds so good my thighs start to clench and I begin to squirm.
I really shouldn’t be thinking of him this way. It’s so wrong.
Then an image of him between my legs, those wide hips pressed against my thighs as he rams himself into me. Oh my God, what am I imagining right now?
My cheeks are on fire, and I can feel the heat radiating off my chest. I’m pretty sure I’m horny, like really horny. The most Ben ever had me feeling was a few butterflies, but never like this. I never imagined what Ben would sound like grunting as he thrust himself inside me, and I certainly never pictured his orgasm face in my head while slipping a hand down the warm center between my legs.
This is insane. Still, I can’t help myself.
I keep thinking about what Henry and I talked about earlier and how I admitted the orgasms I give myself were never quite worth the hassle to get them. But right now, with the forbidden thoughts of Henry ravaging me, my body is on fire. The spot between my legs is so sensitive that I have to writhe and squirm the second my fingers touch it.
Is this worse than texting and driving? I honestly can’t tell but there certainly aren’t any campaigns and posters that say “Don’t masturbate and drive”. Maybe there should be. The car is on cruise control, and there isn’t another car for miles while I squeeze my thighs tight around my hand, keeping an eye on Henry to make sure he doesn’t wake up and see me furiously grinding my own hand to the image of his bulge and the idea of him fucking me.
As soon as I picture him taking me from behind, driving into me like a crazed alpha male, I lose it and have to bite my lip to keep from moaning as I come. My ass lifts off the seat as I try to not hit the pedals.
When I do finally come down, my hand jerks just slightly from the aftershock and the car jolts just a little to the side, nothing dangerous, but enough to send us over a giant pothole that I probably should have tried avoiding. My hand is still shoved down my pants when a loud pop makes Henry jerk awake. He’s staring at me wide-eyed as the car begins to shake and pull to the side.
“What the bloody hell?” he shouts as he grabs the wheel and I let up on the gas.
Meanwhile, my elbow gets caught under the seat belt so I literally cannot get my hand out of my underwear.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying!”
“Why is your hand in your pants?”
“I just…I was…”
With my foot on the brake, we manage to get the car off the freeway on a desolate exit that leads to what looks like a long country road. With both of our hands on the steering wheel, we manage to park it in a dirt spot where we’re safe. Finally, I pry my arm out of the tangled seat belt and try to hide my beet red cheeks.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and I know he means from the flat and the harrowing moment of pulling off the freeway, but that’s nothing compared to how humiliated I am. I can’t bear to look at him, so I jump out of the car. Running ahead I keep my back to him before coming to a stop under one lone streetlamp.
I can’t believe I just did that.
I can’t believe I just did that.
First of all, getting myself off isn’t something that comes easy to me. And I just got myself there…so easily with visuals of him, my best friend’s dad. My best friend’s dad.
“Ugh,” I moan, squeezing my hands against my cheek.
Distantly, I hear a car door slam and footsteps approach. He doesn’t speak for a moment. I just feel his presence there.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
He clears his throat. “Just so we’re clear…”
“Don’t say it,” I snap, glaring at him. I swear to God if he says out loud what I was just doing I will throw myself into oncoming traffic.
“You were…”
“Stop!”
“You were revving the engine.’”
“Oh my God,” I moan, trying to walk away.
“Checking under the hood?”
There’s a small snicker behind me, and I can feel my face turn red this time. He can’t possibly be making dad jokes right now.
“If you don’t shut up right now…”
“It’s okay, Laila. We all need an oil change from time to time.”
Spinning around on him, I try to shove him against the chest, and I can’t fight the smile that creeps across my face. His smile is stretched from ear to ear, and it’s so bright it’s like looking at the sun. After managing to get one good push, he grabs my wrists and pulls me close, capturing my hands against him.
Refusing to let him look at me, I bury my face against his shirt. His hands immediately wrap around me in an embrace that doesn’t feel as inappropriate as I know it should. It’s silent for a moment before either of us speaks.
“I’m sorry about your car,” I mumble, but I don’t pull away. It feels nice to be held in his arms. He smells good, like cologne and laundry soap with a hint of manly musk.
“Don’t worry about it. I can change it, but we’ll need to get it replaced in the morning. We can’t drive on the highway with a spare.”
I let out a groan, feeling the sudden weight of what I just did. Noticing my distress, he pats my back to comfort me.
“We’ll be all right, Laila.” For a guy who was so insistent on getting to his daughter in a rush yesterday, he’s strangely relaxed about our setback now. What changed?
“I’ll pay for it,” I say quickly.
“It was a pothole, Laila. It’s not like you came hard enough to pop the tire. Did you?” He looks down at me, arching an eyebrow, but I don’t look up.
Instead I groan into his shirt again.
“I hope you at least got to finish.”
“I’m not answering that.”
His husky laugh vibrates through me. He really shouldn’t be holding me this tight, but I’m feeling reckless. I almost want to see how far I can push him. How much I can get away with.
We go back to the car and I lay down in the backseat, researching local tire shops while he gets the jack and spare out of the trunk. I find the nearest town quickly on the map, and it has a small tire shop only twelve miles away. When I get out to tell him, I find him kneeling on his haunches in just his long-sleeved shirt and jeans. There’s a flashlight next to him as he starts to crank the jack. Something about watching him turn the crank makes my insides flutter.
At a moment like this I would usually text Kirsten and tell her all about how I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar while driving and thinking about my hot passenger naked and railing me, but I can’t. Because it’s her dad.
Henry is her dad.
God, what is wrong with you, Laila?
“Well, good news,” I say, clearing my throat and trying not to look at his butt in those tight jeans. Or the veins in his arms illuminated in the lamplight. Or his strong hands jacking up the car.
“What is it?” he asks.
“There’s a tire shop twelve miles away. It opens at eight. No motel though.”
“Uh oh.” He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me.
“The nearest hotel is forty-two miles in the opposite direction.”
“Damn,” he says, leaning back. I can feel him looking at me as he weighs our options, which aren’t much.
“It’s just one night,” I mumble. “We can always just crash in the car.” Something about curling up with Henry in the back of a cramped car excites me. We’ll have to cuddle for warmth, obviously. It just might be the right opportunity to ask him what I really want to ask him. Ever since last night, I’ve started brewing up an insane idea in my head, and I can’t seem to let it go.
I want to ask Henry to be my first.
Yeah, I know that’s insane, but he seems to have so much experience, and I have none. I don’t want to go out into the dating world being so naive and inexperienced. So, why not ask him to show me some things? If he and I can get the physical stuff out of the way, then I’ll be able to have so much more confidence in my next relationship.
It’s not like Henry is my dad, and I know him being Kirsten’s dad makes things weird, but he’s not like other dads. And this way, I know he’ll actually keep me safe and look out for me, unlike any other guy I would be with.
My hands won’t stop shaking with the prospect of asking him this. It’s insane.
I can’t read his expression, but he’s clearly contemplating my idea of sleeping in the car as he gets back to work on the tire. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing I am. “I’m really sorry again.”
“Stop apologizing,” he replies. “It’s not your fault your check engine light came on.”
“Stop it!” I say, swatting his shoulder. He seems to think this is hilarious and only laughs, dodging my blows. It’s a far cry from the one word answers I got yesterday.
“Come here and help me,” he barks, pulling me closer. Kneeling next to him, I can smell his cologne again, and his hand brushes mine when we both reach for the wrench. He clears his throat. “Take off these lug nuts while I get the spare ready.”
I glance sideways at him, still waiting for his response to the idea of sleeping in the car. There is no response until after we get the spare on and he pulls out his phone, probably to confirm what I just told him.
“There’s a gas station a mile from here. We can take the car and get some food, then make a plan from there.”
“Sounds good,” I say, hopping into the passenger seat. I figure it’s best to let him drive from here.
