He didn’t have to ask twice.
She needed it, too.
They were colliding together now. She rode him fast, his hips bucking up into her, her body crashing down onto him almost painfully, chasing the insane quotient that would be theirs in seconds. She could feel it pulling back and back like a tsunami, and it was going to break, and she was going to scream.
She did.
His name.
Her consciousness was whipped into the stratosphere while pleasure all but took over with a near violent, indescribable bliss. It racked her body. And seconds later he went still, with a choked roar against her clavicle. She could feel him shuddering beneath her. They clung to each other.
She tipped her head against his. He kissed her. Drew her hair back with shaking fingers.
Their bodies heaved together, still.
“No one has ever called me ‘baby,’” she murmured. Bemused.
He laughed. Breathlessly. “It just slipped out. I was channeling a swinger. Sammy Davis Jr., maybe.”
“Or Sonny Bono.”
“Or Dean Martin.”
“Or Bob Newhart.”
He stared at her, openmouthed, aghast. “Bob Newhart was not aswinger.”
They both laughed absurdly hard at this.
“Casey Carson once told me that one of her friends yelled ‘ride me, you lop-eared son of a bitch!’ in the throes of sex.”
He stared at her. “Why’d you have to tell me that? Now I have to top it.”
She laughed. “Am I squishing you?”
“I really want to say no, but in about two seconds I won’t be able to feel my thighs.”
She shifted from him and reached immediately for her pants and her underwear.
There was no time to linger, to savor every last particle of the feel of him inside her, on her skin, or her lips. It felt wasteful, ungrateful, almost criminal, to partake like that and just leave.
Suddenly they were both somber; it was silent. She was getting good at wriggling back into her clothes in enclosed spaces.
He was busy putting himself back together. There was something so frank about the undressing and redressing in front of each other.
They sat together in silence for a time, staring out through the windshield.
“This is madness, you know,” he said thoughtfully.
She knew he meant the Furtive Speed Sex they’d been enjoying.
“I know.”
She put her hand on the door handle. Then took it away.
They had two minutes. She was going to take both of them.
Three, because she could break the speed limit with relative impunity on this road; it was isolated enough and she knew it well. It would be irresponsible and reckless and apparently that’s what she was now.