Excerpt from The Party, from Boudoir Stories
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They hadn’t made love right away, but had driven out to the beach to watch the sunrise. Foreplay. They sat in the car and enjoyed the break of day together until normal breathing became almost unbearable, touching unstoppable.
They chose the car over the white sand with cattails that blew softly in the breeze. It was just sex, she had reminded.
As Sabrina writhed and arched over the 6-speed gear shift, slid her lust across the taupe leather seats, Dawson groped like a lost boy. Dawn’s first light bore in through the windshield. Her breasts were hard as melons, probably fake but it made no difference to him. He squeezed them.
Her panties, already down around her knees, left nothing for him to do but reach in, feel her readiness. And so was he. Unbuttoned, he sprang forth, quivered with desire, pushed to enter. A pile of condoms spilled from the dashboard onto the floor. Out of reach. Taunting. He made a move for them. She grabbed him, pulled him close. Demanding. He reached again but she stopped him, placed his outstretched hand on the soft of her inner thigh, pressed it into her wetness. Tongue in ear.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. But he knew it did. Between licks he reached down, unwrapped one handed in one movement. Like riding a bike, he hadn’t forgotten how. Gingerly, he placed tube over tip, opened, spread, pushed. She was anxious, excited, forced its fit, urged rubber down hard as he dove into her. She was so ready.
By the time they climaxed the sun was pouring heat through glass. Warm leather. Ecstasy. Afterward, she wanted to smoke. He didn’t. She stepped out into the salt tipped air and lit up, inhaled deeply. He watched her. Audrey Hepburn hair blew in the wind, wet lips curled around cool menthol, bared shoulder pressed against hot chrome. She looked away. Distant. Aloof.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.