Page 51 of Shane

“Yeah, there’s a lot of Sullivans. The only thing is that I think being around them all reminds my mom a lot of her times with Dad.”

“What about her family?”

“She’s an only child, and there’s not many of them left. What about your family? A lot of relatives?”

“No, we’re a small family on both sides. My dad’s people, The Bings, are Chinese-Jamaican and migrated to New York and Philadelphia in the 1970s, but most are in New York, and I don’t know them well. My mom’s parents met in Japan. My grandfather was in the Air Force and met my grandmother at a local eatery. He didn’t speak much Japanese, but I guess their chemistry overcame any language barriers. My mom was born about a year later, lived there until she was five, and then they all moved to the States. My father is close to his sister, and my mom’s younger brother lives in Michigan, but I haven’t seen him since I was three or something.”

I pause talking after that. What is my deal whenever I’m around this guy? I’m spilling my guts again like his car is some sort of therapy couch. I decide I should quiet myself down.

Do your deep breathing, I say to myself.

“I like that I know more about you,” he says without warning, reaching over and using a finger to play with a piece of my hair.

“I guess,” I reply.

“Do I make you nervous, Kennedy?”

Shane continues to play in my hair, and I don’t stop him.

“No,” I answer quickly, probably too quickly.

“That’s good.” He grins devilishly. “Then you won’t mind if I do this?”

Two of his fingers trace the side of my neck, along my clavicle, and continue a path in between my breasts. My breathing quickens.

“Or this.”

His fingers move slowly to one of my breasts and quickly find my nipple through the smooth fabric of my top.

My eyes close, and I know I should stop him, but I don’t.

It feels entirely too good.

Because I’m already conveniently reclined in the car seat, it makes it so easy for Shane to continue exploring my body, inch by inch. He continues running his fingers down my chest, past my belly button, and then they rest at the waistband of my leggings.

I look him dead in the eyes.

He’s studying mine.

He wants me to say the words, but I won’t. I can’t. If this goes any further, it’s because I’m pretending this is all him and I’m some innocent bystander. I’m not ready to admit I want him so badly that I’d gladly ride him to orgasm in this car if I had the nerve.

But I don’t.

And I think he knows it.

So instead of sliding his hand under my waistband, he glides his fingers across it and settles them in between my legs, ending with a firm squeeze of my faux leather-clad pussy.

My head falls back as I mutter, “Fuck.”

“Not yet, but soon,” he promises with a throaty laugh.

He basically gives my pussy a deep tissue massage, alternating between squeezing my labia together, then running his finger in between the folds to knead my clit.

“So I was thinking–” he says while he masterfully rubs me into an impending orgasm.

“Yes?” I say through tight lips.

He leans over more, his mouth close to my left ear, and I can smell heady hints of sandalwood of his cologne in combination with my aching pussy.