His car

Dusk in a parked car, apron on the seat, white t-shirt, sneakers in the footwell. I am twenty-two. Gordon is forty-nine. We had already eaten and already said this was a date, not a shift. I climbed into his lap as much as the wheel allowed and kissed him until the windows fogged. I said I want your fingers on my cunt and then I want you to fuck me right here, and if a light sweeps us we stop and laugh and drive.

He asked, because he always asks. I said yes and put his hand in my jeans. He rubbed my clit the way I showed him last time, two fingers, heel of his palm, and he told me I was beautiful and sharp and not a girl he had to be careful of in the way people mean when they are being condescending. I said good, now be careful of me in the way that means you listen. I came with my forehead on his, a short laugh, cunt wet on his fingers.

Then I shoved jeans and his trousers down enough and sank my cunt onto his cock. The car rocked a little. I rode him shallow and told him not to thrust until I said. When I said, he fucked up into my cunt, and I came again, biting his shoulder through the shirt, cunt gripping his cock. I told him to cum in my cunt. He did, groaning my name, hands gentle on my waist. We fixed our clothes. I put the sneakers back on and kept the apron on the seat like laundry. I said my place, tea, and your hands on my feet if you are staying. He said he was staying.