The towel under me was already damp by the time we reached the shop.
Dean had f****d me in the shower that morning—slow, deep, one hand over my mouth so Mom wouldn’t hear—and come inside me before he even let me rinse. Then he’d bent me over the bathroom counter and added a second load while the water ran. I’d clenched around both of them the entire drive, a folded towel on the passenger seat, his hand resting high on my thigh every time we stopped.
“Red light,” he said now, calm. “Thank me.”
“Thank you.”
His fingers slipped under the hem of my shorts—no panties, his rule—and pushed into the mess. Two fingers, then three, f*****g the c*m deeper while we idled. I bit my lip and stared straight ahead. The light turned green. He left his fingers in me for another block before pulling them
