Despite the cherry pie incident, Ridge is good with the boys. He even helps me get them into bed that night, and I think the only reason he does is so he can get some. He’s like an eager teenager.
Do you see the way he’s looking at me? No? Oh, right, he’s not. He’s standing in the hallway with his arms crossed, shaking his head and refusing to step foot in my bedroom. “I’m not doing it in his bed.”
Now I get it. Can’t say I blame him. “Then what do you suggest?”
“The floor. . . or your minivan.” Take notice in the way he’s waggling his eyebrows. He wants me to choose that option.
But that’s perfect because it’s in the garage. . . away from the house and the boys wouldn’t hear us. “That’s actually a good idea.”
“Really?” He looks surprised, but still eager.
“Yep.
“All right then. Go.” He slaps my ass, hard, leading me out the sliding glass door to the garage.
We sneak through the yard, tiptoeing to the garage like we’re teenagers again. Because we are.
I open the side door, and Ridge leans in, his hands on the roof examining the inside. “Do the seats fold down?”
I think I already told him, but apparently, he’s forgotten. “It’s a minivan. Of course they do.”
I begin flipping levers and folding seats down and Ridge is absolutely no help. He’s watching Cars.
“Thanks for the help, jerk.”
“Sorry.” He moves to lay down. “You. . . ow.” He pulls a football cleat out from under him. “Shit. You need a mattress back here.”
I eye him carefully. “I don’t plan on making a habit out of this—”
My words are cut off by Ridge biting my shoulder. Hard. He leaves an imprint of his fucking teeth. “I plan on making a habit out of that.”
“Goddamn you.” I touch the red mark with my fingertips. It’s tender yet strangely numb. “Stop biting me.”
“Why?”
“Because it hurts.”
“It gets you off.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyes have that spark to them, like he’s accepting a challenge. “I’ll prove it.” He grabs me, grinding his hips into mine as I climb on top of him.
I giggle at his excitement. “You’re hard already?”
“You’re on top of me straddling my waist. Of course I’m hard. And you know, Cars always gets me hot.”
A minivan seems like the perfect place to have sex. Seems being the keyword here. In actuality, there’s knobs, seat buckles and then all the other crap inside the van I pushed aside to get going.
Also, I’ll point out, the door is open. Not the garage door. That’s locked. The door to the van. Pay attention to that particular detail in about, I don’t know, five minutes?
Anyway, there we are. . . the van’s a rocking, and I’m enjoying the hell out of it. Aside from the fact that I literally have rug burn on my cheek and my ass is up in the air while Ridge pile drives me from behind.
I open one eye about the time Ridge shifts his position, his hand on the ceiling and I realize what he’s about to touch.
“Wait, don’t put your hand up there there’s a. . . .” Notice how my voice trails off?
That’s because, despite my warning, Ridge pushes the SOS button with his thumb.
You might also be thinking, Aly, I’ve seen the SOS button in my own minivan. There’s a little clear door you have to open, and then push the button. It’s a safety feature for when you are you know, fucking someone in the back of said minivan and his hand is on the ceiling for support.
Now. . . sure, the “safety shield” should be there, but guess who has kids?
Me. Cash ripped that fucker off the first week I had the van.
Now, back to what’s happening in the van.
Ridge drops his hand, eyes wide and stares at me. Oh look, something finally made the cocky bastard speechless.
After a moment, he asks, “Does that call 911?”
I swallow over what feels like a boulder in my throat. “I’ve never pushed it. I don’t know what it does.”
I can already see the headlines: Teacher arrested while diddling his students’ mom.
I’m sure they’d come up with a better headline than me.
We’re about to find out what the button does because the next thing we know, there’s a voice that comes over my stereo. “This call may be monitored or recorded for quality assurance.” And then, “Toyota assist, this is Frank. How may I assist you?”
Do you see us there in the van? While it’s more than likely an entertaining sight to see, I’m the one on my hands and knees, and Ridge is the one behind me, dick still in my pussy.
Entertaining, huh? I’ll tell you what’s more entertaining. The fact that Ridge is having a conversation with Frank.
Frank’s asking questions like, “Can you give me your exact location?”
And Ridge answers with, “South, Frank. South.”
I turn my head to glare at him, which is actually a task in itself because I’m getting to know my dashboard a lot better than I ever have in the past. My left tit is literally teabagging a cup holder. “Stop talking to this dude. Hang up,” I order, trying to pry my face from the radio knob. I also can’t understand why we’re pushed up so far. We have the whole back to maneuver around in, yet he’s got me stuck between the front seats. Probably so I can’t get away from him.
“Turn over,” he orders, like I’m supposed to listen to his every demand. “Can you stick your legs on the armrests?”
I try, and I do. It’s certainly more comfortable than having my face pressed into the dash, and I’m a hell of a lot more flexible than I initially thought. But then it’s not comfortable. Not one bit and I think—though I’m not entirely sure—I have a McDonald’s toy making friends with my asshole. I’ll be throwing that away, later. “This—”
Ridge shakes his head. “No talking.” He removes my hands from the seat and places them on the backs of my knees. “Hold your legs up.” His eyes dip, heavy lids closing when he pushes forward. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
I hear heavy breathing, and by the way, it’s not coming from us.
“How’s that?” Ridge grunts, his movements sure and steady. “Do you like that?”
I toss my head back and break my cup holder off. “Yes... soooo fucking good.”
“Really good?” He’s always looking for compliments.
“Yes.”
“That’s right.” He’s so fucking cocky. “You’re really tight.”
“What. . . are you two actually having sex?” Frank asks, barely getting the words out. I think Frank might be a virgin.
Ridge laughs. “What you think, Frank?”
No answer.
Ridge continues, pulls back, then pushes forward again, groaning as he does so. And then I notice he’s leaning forward a little too much. “Careful, don’t lean forward that much. We’re going to fall forward.”
He doesn’t listen.
I push against his chest, and something catches my eye behind him. Whiskers just joined the party, and he’s watching us fuck. He’s probably jealous. His balls were cut a long time ago and his humping days are over. Swallowing, in pain, and nervous, I attempt again to gain Ridge’s attention. “I’m serious. If you keep pushing me forward, you’re going to fall.” I attempt to balance myself and dig the toy out of my ass. “Just here... move... to the right a little.”
“No, no... don’t... that....”
Can you guess what happens next?
He loses his balance and collapses against me and nails his forehead on the shifter. “Son of a bitch!” he yells, grabbing his forehead.
“Told you,” I sigh, staring up at the ceiling. This isn’t exactly how I anticipated car sex.
Growling, he steadies his hands on the armrests. “No more talking unless it’s screaming out my name.”
His eyes burn into me down the center of my body, between my breasts. His pace quickens, and it’s exactly what I need to come. It helps that he pinches my clit again, the sure movements of his thumb and fingertips the exact combination I need.
He groans into my ear, and I can tell he’s close by the way he races toward his own release. I feel him shivering and pulsing inside of me, his back arching at the force as he chants my name. Our cries of pleasure fill the minivan.
It takes a while to be able to move again and figure out what body part can move in what direction without pulling a muscle or dislocating something. Or worse, end in stitches.
Ridge falls back against the folded down seats only to have Whiskers rub up against him. And I hate to point this out, but I think Whiskers might be batting for the same team when he starts to make his way toward Ridge’s cock.
Ridge must sense it and covers himself, his hands cupping his junk. “What’s with all the cats?”
I shrug, unwilling to share my compulsion to bring in stray animals.
As Ridge rubs his forehead, we hear, “Excuse me, sir?”
Oh, goddamn it. You remember Frank, right?
Guess who’s still on the phone when we’re finished?
Our buddy Frank. “Dude,” he draws out. “You’re my hero.”
Ridge rolls his eyes at me, reaching for his shirt and pushing Whiskers out of the van. “I’m gonna have to break up with Frank.”