Crimson 3/?

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So it's one of those nights in early May when it's not that hot, but the humidity is high enough to make it sort of uncomfortable. We're going out to eat because Jack wants to and because we always do what Jack wants to do. Tonight that means driving down narrow, dark country roads way too fast with the windows down which is totally destroying my hair. The wind is so loud, and I have to admit that it does feel good even though I'll look like a tornado victim when we get to wherever we're going. Soon he has to slow down because of where we are, and my hair starts to cling to my neck again. "Put it up," he says, fishing in the console for a clip or something. "You have twelve million clips in here. You look hot when you put your hair up." "You've left me no choice," I tell him, "It's either that or Jabba the Hut." He laughs and hands me the barrette he found, and as soon as I secure the rat's nest on my head, his hand falls to my thigh, slipping immediately under my black dress. "Off," he says as his fingertips brush over my panties. "I thought you were starving," I remind him. "I am but take them off anyway," he insists.

He has his eyes on the road and his hand on my leg and as soon as he feels the material, he makes sure they get down past my knees, and then his hand starts to move again. We're the only ones at a stop sign in the middle of nowhere; I hear an ambulance siren from far away and feel his fingers getting closer. "You're wet," he says, "Aren't you?" (God, that's a dumb question.) And here comes an even dumber answer, "Yes." I haven't even finished the word and his fingers are between my legs. "Keep your legs open," he says. "Pull the car over, Jack, please." He doesn't even pretend to argue with me; he just pulls into the first parking lot he sees which happens to be a Baptist church. Luckily, we're the only people here. (Praise Jesus.)

He turns his attention back to me as he turns off the car. The windows go up, the moon roof opens, very sexy jazz music starts to trickle out of the radio, but he's just looking at me. And touching me. I have to close my eyes when his fingers disappear inside me; his thumb starts teasing my clit. "Don't do this if you don't want me to come," I warn him. "This isn't a cease fire in the Middle East you're working on here; this is gonna happen."

"Pull your dress up."

(God Bless America; I'll do anything for world peace.)

"Do you know that every time I say something to you when my fingers are inside you, I can feel you gush?" he asks me.

"Yes."

I kick my right shoe off and try to sneak my foot up onto the dashboard for the leverage I want for this orgasm; he thinks this is hilarious and takes my other leg into his possession, leans forward and starts kissing his way down my thigh. I push his head back, "Jesus, don't eat me in a church parking lot. We're so going to hell." He grabs my hand and pins it underneath me...

Forgive me Father for I'm about to sin--


oh god...

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