Page 40 of Goode Vibrations
“Yeah, maybe we had better,” I agreed. “Much as I’d rather put you on your back and give you a couple more screamers.”
She laughed, low and hoarse. “I think we’ve both been to heaven this morning.”
“Well, I got heaven two ways, because you taste as good coming on my mouth as you make me feel with yours.”
She closed her eyes, slowed her breath. Opened them, smiled at me, bright, eager, calm. “So. Nearest hotel?”
“Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn…” I quipped, quoting a tune I’d heard on the radio a while back.
She snickered. “Oh man, old school.” She plugged her phone into the auxiliary jack, hunting through her music app. “I’ve got a playlist for that!”
And so we hit the highway again, for real this time, jamming to old school American hip-hop, funk, and soul. Hours passed as easily as the miles, and our conversation flowed as freely as the day before.
You’d think what with the—as she’d so humorously and aptly put it—sexual hijinks of the morning, that the sexual tension would have eased between us.
Yeah nah. Not even. Worse, matter of fact.
Every time our hands brushed, sparks flew. Her eyes roamed my face, my body, mouth, hands, the fly of my shorts. And mine did as well.
Neither of us dared to outright touch each other, out of an unspoken mutual agreement—any touch, however innocent, would set us off, and after the close encounter with the police this morning, neither of us fancied a ticket or a further temptation of fate. No, best wait till we got somewhere like civilization, and a motel, where we could lock a door behind us and do things proper-like.
As in, get her lush body totally naked, so I could explore the many fine curves, feel her skin and taste her again and fucking finally get myself inside that sweet tight slit of hers.
Never in my life have I wanted anything so bad. Feeling her under my fingers, tasting her, having been so close but so far only made my need to be inside her worse than anything.
And judging by the way her eyes kept flicking to my shorts, to the outline of my cock behind them, she was feeling the same.
So, when I say the hours and miles passed easily, that’s a bit of a lie. They crept. It seemed we were prowling through the wops for hours on end before we started to see evidence of humanity instead of just forest and cows and hay and corn and wheat. I’d no idea where we were except heading north, and I didn’t rightly care. Neither did she—she just kept blasting us fifty-five miles per hour north, ever north, through one-light town after one-light town, where there was little but a single gas station and maybe a small dairy, a used car lot, or a home and farm store.
Nothing like a decent place to stop until well past noon. We paused to refuel at a junction, got shitty coffee, and I fixed us snacks for the next leg of our trip.
An hour or so later we passed signs for Moline and Davenport, and I’d no clue which state they were in, or which we were in—little two-lane roads like this don’t get big signs advertising the state line. I learned, if they’re there, they’re old and worn and if you blink you miss them. It was only early afternoon then, so we blew through them despite our growling stomachs. What was pushing us on, I wasn’t sure. The playlists we listened to were endless and varied, first from her phone, then mine.
We switched when we stopped to fuel up a second time, and I let Poppy pick a playlist from my phone. She perused for a minute, scrolling through the ones we’d already listened to, until she got near the bottom of the list.
“What’s this one?” she asked.
I glanced without really seeing—the sun was low and bright, and I refocused on the road. “What one?”
“It doesn’t have a title.” Shit, no, not that one; she tapped before I could say anything, though. “The songs are all…what is this? Gaelic?”
I shifted. “Uh, yeah. Irish Gaelic. It’s just…some old stuff. Reels and jigs, and the like.”
Just old stuff. Good one, mate.
She shrugged. “I’m down for some Irish reels,” she said as she tapped the phone.
Fuck.
Instantly, my toe tapped. Drowsy Maggie, Dad’s favorite tune to fiddle. Close my eyes and I could see Dad beside me, leading the way on old Moll, the fiddle passed down from his great-grandfather. Fucking deluge of memories, all hitting like a load of bricks, all within half a measure.
She didn’t miss a trick, though, Poppy didn’t.
“You okay?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
She frowned. “Okay, well, bullshit. But that’s your business.” She paused the song, found a playlist of my favorite hard rock songs, a mix of American, New Zealand, and Australian bands.