Your hands are on my thighs. My skirt is bunched at my hips, and right now I'm wondering, why, why didn't I wear underwear?
I knew the temptation would be strong. But I wasn't expecting us to have time alone. I was expecting to flirt, carefully. I was expecting to always have someone around us, one of our lovers. To keep us in check. To keep us on guard.
I can feel the press of your hard cock through the front of your jeans as you lean against me. I wrap a leg around you and hold you tight because I want to feel it against my pussy. My thighs are soaked and I know I'm probably drenching the fly of your pants.
Oh my god,
I want you inside me. I've been thinking about it all day but
"We can't do this," I say. It's true. We'd be breaking the trust of the people we love.
"I know," you say.
Neither of us pull apart.
I don't push you away.
In fact, my hands are grasping the front of your shirt as if I couldn't bear to see you back off. My words, my logic, are at odds with what my body wants.
You pin me against the car. The passenger side door is still open next to us. I remember stepping out, my ankle bending improperly, stumbling. You caught me. The rest was a blur, until this moment.
This moment.
Your hand fumbling with your belt, shaky, unbuttoning, pulling down the zipper. I can smell you even before you pull out your cock; I don't have to see it to know it's hard and leaking.
"Not inside," I say, though we both know it's what we want the most. You let me slip my hand between us and I breathe in as I feel your length, how thick, mouthwatering. Your hips are pressing forward. I run my thumb around the head of your penis, feeling the liquid beading out of the tip, rubbing it in circles.
It's dangerous. I know. I stand on the tips of my toes and direct your cock between my thighs. It's hot and slides easily along my slit. It takes every ounce of my power not to tilt my hips forward, to take you inside. I feel your length run along my lips, my clit, and I moan wantonly. Maybe you do, too.
You get the idea. You pull back, and push in, not fucking me, but fucking my legs, so slow it could be torture. I feel like I'm on the perpetual edge of coming. I rock with you, my self-control slipping a little more with every nudge against my sex, with every rising degree of heat between my legs.
You slip. Or my hips finally curve toward you, my body willing to ask for what I verbally deny. The very tip of you slips in, then pops back out, sliding past that hungry mouth. An accident. I gasp, and I'm aware of my thighs spreading further, my legs aching from strain. You press against me, harder, pinning me between your hips and the curved side of the car.
I feel my body tremble as the pressure is released a bit. I feel the whimper escape my throat as your length slides backwards, away from me, my hands now gripping your upper arms desperately. I dare not even look up to your face; I know the want is clear in my eyes, as if with every gasp and pant, I'm begging you to fuck me properly.
You go slow, deliberate. My mind is reeling, I'm so lightheaded I can scarcely form words. I know you're sliding into me; I'm delirious with the pleasure.
Wrong,
