Captive Ride(6)

“That’s right, baby,” I croon. I slip my fingers out to spread some of her wetness around her clit, circling that tiny bud in slow even circles. She squirms on the leather seat of the booth. “You are wet and hot and tighter than I imagined and trust me,” I chuckle low, “I’ve imagined plenty. I want to spread your legs and suck down all this juice you’re making for me right now. Fuck, sweetheart, hear how wet you are for me.”

I drive my fingers back inside of her and we both strain to hear the sucking noises over the clangs of the silverware striking dishes and people talking about this deal and that deal.

“Do you hear that?”

The normally talkative Amy is silent. She burns me with her eyes. I press my thumb against her clit and begin to pump my fingers rapidly. She grinds down, using the table as leverage. My own dick is aching. I fucking need to be inside her.

The telltale flutters of an impending orgasm beat against my fingers. I’m going to make this orgasm so explosive for her, she’ll forget her own name. With my free hand I circle her neck. So it looks like I’m drawing her close to me rather than chocking her, I curl my fingers around the nape and lay my thumb against her windpipe.

Her eyes widen.

“Let go, Amy. I’ve got you. You don’t have to be careful with me.” I press down against her throat and reduce her airflow. Her wordless gasp becomes a keening noise which she immediately muffles by turning her head into my arm. Her come drenches my hand. Not once do I let up my pace.

Neither of us notice the waitress that arrives to ask if my untouched meal is okay. She asks twice.

“I think it’s fine, isn’t it Amy?” I drop my hand to her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before I pick up my beer and hold it to her lips.

She gulps once and then twice. In a raspy voice, she manages to get out, “It’s fine. He’s not hungry. He’s on a diet. Watching his figure and all that.”

The waitress gives me an appraising stare and under the table, I pull my fingers out. They smell like her. And I don’t give a flying fuck that anyone is watching me. There’s no way I don’t taste her.

I stick those two sopping fingers in my mouth and suck off every drop of essence Amy’s left on me. Dueling gasps and dropped mouths watch my every move.

I close my eyes.

Fuck. She tastes like heaven.





Chapter Three





Amy


Flint calmly withdraws his hand. Even in the dim light of the Moonflower Eatery, I can see the evidence of how much I wanted this all over his fingers. He picks up a napkin—the one that Ron used—and wipes hands off.

The whole time he stares at me, daring me.

I take one deep breath and then another. And then another until my racing heart slows down to a mild trot.

“We’ll take the check,” I manage to say to the waitress who is glued to the floor. She nods and flees. Whether she’s turned on or disgusted, I’m not sure. What I do know is that I won’t be returning to the Moonflower anytime soon. The waitress delivers the check silently and ghosts away. I lay down several bills and pick up my purse.

“I need to get back to the office, Flint. It was…good to see you again.” I offer the polite words because I’m not exactly sure how I feel right now other than terrified, mostly of myself and my own response.

“You need a break, Amy,” Flint says.

“Maybe.” I watch as he picks up my cash, folds it carefully and then tucks it into his vest pocket. He lays his own cash on the table and then slides out of the booth.

I’m still stuck to the leather wondering what the hell just happened. Flint leans forward and cups my face. “Not maybe. You take a break and it’ll happen for you.”



* * *



“Tell me you are not going back to prison. Make that promise to me right now.” I jab my finger on the top of the legal pad in front of me. I’m still a little agitated from lunch but I’m trying very hard to put it—and Flint—out of my mind.

Isamu Mori spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “I hope not.”

I hope not? There’s no way he makes it. Just two days out of prison and he’s already got one foot back inside.

“Christ, Isamu. I can’t keep bailing you out. Remember the whole three strikes rule? You’re two-thirds of your way to a life sentence for stupid drug offenses.”

“How am I going to pay for treatment when I got to work? There ain’t no jobs for felons like me out there that will pay for a doctor’s visit. You want me to stay out. My mom wants me to stay out. I want to stay out but if I don’t got a job and someone on the street is willing to pay me $100 for a ten minute delivery, it’s hard to say no.” His size ten sneakers shift uncomfortably on the floor.