Blood to Dust

When the afternoon rolls around and I hear Prescott’s stomach complaining loudly, I pull in at a gas station. I need to stretch my limbs. This car is f*cking killing me.

“Would you like to hear our specials for today? We’ve got Twix for a starter and glazed-BBQ Lays for an entrée,” I stick my head into her window. The blonde spitfire bounces the soft stress ball off my nose a couple of times as she speaks.

“Two Red Bulls and a sandwich. And chips. Oh, and something sweet. Chocolate. I’d like a Diet Pepsi, too.”

I come back with approximately sixty percent of the convenient mart’s goods and switch on the ignition. Prescott pumped gas while I was inside. I groan when my knees hit the steering wheel again. I shouldn’t have let her shake hands on this car. By the time we’re done, I’ll shrink to half my size in this thing.

“I miss Stella. The Beatmobile sucks ass,” I say, pulling back onto the main road. Prescott throws her hands up in despair.

“Would you stop moping? I hate to break it to you, but there’s probably another guy deep inside Stella right now, riding her like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Bitch,” I drone, creamy clouds move away to make room for the blues and pinks of the sun. This day is turning out to be f*cking stunning. Maybe it’s the weather.

And maybe it’s the girl.

“I’m joking, Nate. Would it help if I gave you head?”

My neck heats and my eyes water with the possibility. Okay, it’s definitely the girl.

“A little. Let me lick your crack when we get to the motel. That’d put a smile back on my face.”

She rolls her eyes on a smirk. “Fine. In the meantime, I’m unzipping you.”

I don’t dare move my gaze from the road. My blood is pumping so hard in my veins, I’m surprised I’m not bursting like an overcooked wrapped meal in a microwave. I’m not even sure I’d like her to give me head. I’m liable to throw us right into the ocean with those lips on my junk. After all, we’re passing beach towns. It’s damn likely I would.

“Here?” I ask coolly.

“Why not?” She pushes her hair up off of her face, angling closer. “Tinted windows, and I’ve been meaning to see how much of you I can take. I have a suspicion it’ll be just the tip.”

I suck in my cheeks so that my mouth won’t break into a shit-eating grin of the douchebag variety. My left hand is still on the wheel, while I use my right one to grab the back of her head roughly and pull it into my lap. She unzips me and I help her by lifting my ass from the seat to give her better access. My dick is swollen, stiff and ready to get to know those pinks up-close. She reaches for my boxers and strokes my cock in her hand. It jerks its appreciation in response. I’m still not sure why she’s doing this. We weren’t on good terms when we left Hussein’s house, and I was under the impression she’d let me sweat before letting me into her * or mouth again.

Prescott leans farther down, her hot breath on my cock. I roll my head back and fight to keep my eyes open. Crashing into a traffic light would slow us down, but it would be f*cking worth it with her mouth on my dick.

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of blow jobs. Girls usually suck (no pun intended) at knowing the pace and rhythm that works for me. And Pea’s right, most chicks can’t even get half my cock down their throats, anyway. But this is f*cking Prescott Burlington-Smyth. I’d take anything she offered me. Herpes included.

I feel her tongue swirling around my tip, painful desire tensing every muscle in my body. Her mouth is sweltering and her silky locks pale, but dirty like her soul, are all over my lap like a sheet of gold. She hasn’t even sucked me yet, but my balls are already tightening, ready to burst.

“Oh, f*ck, Baby-Cakes.” I fist her hair and drag her mouth deeper into my groin, lurching myself up from the seat as far as this f*cking car allows me, begging for more contact. My head lolls against the headrest and I’m struggling to draw a steady breath. What is it about this girl that makes me forget how to breathe?

She opens her mouth and takes some of me in a leisured suck, then comes up for air. Then she does it again. And again.

After a few minutes of her licking and nibbling through my length, even I have to admit—she gives terrible head. The California highway is potholed, scarred with the impact of earthquakes and the blistering sun, and the car hits bump after bump. Every time it does and my dick meets the back of her throat, she gags with a ghastly sound. She sometimes moves her jaw from one side to the other. I can feel her teeth. It’s like a getting a BJ from a shark. But even though she’s exceptionally untalented at sucking cock, I don’t want her to stop. Her mouth’s on me and that’s enough to make me want to say crazy things to her. Things I’m sure I’m incapable of feeling, anyway.

Ten minutes into the blowjob, Prescott throws in the towel and straightens her posture, eyebrows pinched together. Rage lights up her face.

“You’re not going to come, are you?” Her lips are puffy and bright pink. Just thinking about the fact that they’re swollen because they were wrapped around my cock puts a dark, sinister smile on my face.

“Nope.”

“I thought you said you’re always hot for me.”

“I am.” Is it a good time to tell her she shouldn’t quit her day job as a drug dealer because she sucks like a garbage disposal? “I’m saving my spunk for marriage,” I joke. But she doesn’t laugh. She stares at me seriously, tears pulling at the edge of her eyes. I move my gaze quickly from the road to her face, back to the road. We can’t stop. It’s too dangerous. . .