Page 3 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Three

B y the time I hit the road again, the sun’s already high enough to fry eggs on the pavement.

My thighs are still tight from last night, and the memory of my mouth on Cindi keeps playing on a loop I can’t shut off.

I thought a good fuck would take the edge off.

Burn out some of the tension riding me harder than my Harley ever could.

Instead, it’s like pouring gasoline on a fire.

My appetite’s not curbed. It’s sharpened.

Hungrier now, like my body remembered what it’s been missing and wants more. A lot more.

I probably could’ve stayed another night.

Climbed back on top of Cindi and rode her into the next sunrise.

She would’ve said yes. Hell, she might’ve begged for it.

But I’m not built for staying, never have been, so one night’s enough.

Any more than that and it starts feeling like roots, and I don’t do roots.

So I ride.

It’s the only thing that seems to make sense right now.

Motion. Forward, always forward. The idea of stopping feels like sinking, and I’ve had enough of drowning for one lifetime.

I don’t need a map or a plan. Just fuel in the tank and a horizon to chase.

The hum of the engine is something I can trust. It drowns out the noise inside my head.

The road stretches out in front of me, and the roar of the engine vibrates through my thighs again.

It’s like foreplay. Dangerous, addictive foreplay.

My clit pulses in time with the hum of the bike, and I shift in the saddle, trying to ignore the ache building between my legs.

That’s when I see it. A squat, sun-bleached building off the highway, wedged between a truck stop and a half-collapsed billboard that used to advertise Jesus.

The sign above the door is missing a few letters, but I can still make it out: “ADULT BOOKS & TOYS – OPEN 24 HOURS.”

There are two dusty trucks in the lot and a beat-up sedan with tinted windows that looks like it’s been there a while.

As in weeks. Overall, I imagine it’s the kind of place that smells like cheap lube and bad decisions.

The windows are smudged with handprints and dust, and the cracked concrete parking lot radiates heat like a furnace.

A plastic sign hangs crooked in the front window, blinking a tired ‘OPEN’ in red neon.

I already know this place has seen stories.

I pull in, kill the engine, and swing a leg off the bike.

With no wind to cool me, the heat hits me like a slap, but I welcome it.

Keeps me sharp. Keeps me from getting too soft.

The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, and the scent of rubber, leather, and artificial cherry hits me in the face.

The air conditioning is barely working, but it’s better than outside.

The place is dimly lit, rows of shelves lined with DVDs, lube bottles, and toys in every size, shape, and color.

There’s a whole aisle dedicated to dildos.

Some realistic, some neon pink monstrosities that look like they came from a sci-fi movie.

I’m pretty sure one of them’s got tentacles.

Incredible. I walk slowly, taking it all in.

Stopping in front of a shelf labeled “Double the Trouble,” I pick up a thick purple double-ended dildo, turning it in my hands. It’s got weight. Texture. I snort a laugh. This one could do damage in all the right ways.

“Looking for something… satisfying?” a voice says behind me.

I turn to see the shop’s clerk leaning against the end of the aisle, arms crossed, one brow raised.

She’s hot in a very fuck-me-now kind of way.

Tight black tank top, low-rise jeans, dark red lipstick that makes her mouth look sinful.

Her hair’s jet black, shaved on one side, the rest falling in messy waves over her shoulder.

Tattoos snake up both arms. Roses, skulls, a switchblade on her forearm.

She looks like trouble, but there’s a confidence to her stance that pulls me in.

She doesn’t just look ready, she looks like she hopes I’ll try something.

My pulse kicks up a notch. Every instinct in me sharpens, hunting for a reason to linger longer than I should.

Right now, she’s exactly my type. “Depends what you’ve got,” I say, spinning the dildo in my hand like a baton.

She gives me a wicked smile. “Oh, honey. We’ve got everything.” She steps closer, hips swaying just a little too much to be accidental. Her name tag says “Jax.” Of course it does. Jax gestures toward the back corner. “Strap-on section’s over here. You look like a butch who knows how to use one.”

Following her, I watch the way her jeans cling to her ass. “You always this helpful with customers?”

“Only the ones who look like they can make a girl scream.”

I chuckle low in my throat. “That’s a dangerous thing to say out loud.”

“I like dangerous.”

We stop in front of a wall lined with harnesses and dildos of every shade and girth.

Some are so big I wonder who’s brave enough to take them.

Others are sleek and curved, made for precision.

I reach for a thick black silicone one. About eight inches, slightly curved, with a ridged base and a matte finish that screams business.

“That one’s popular,” Jax says, stepping close enough that her arm brushes mine. “Hits the right spot. If you know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

She leans in, her voice a whisper. “You planning on testing it out?” Looking around, I see the place is dead. No customers in sight. Just the hum of the AC and the soft buzz of a porn video playing on a screen behind the counter.

I raise an eyebrow at her. “You offering?”

Her pupils widen just a touch. “Maybe. You thinking about it?”

Turning the toy in my hand again, my eyes drag over her curves. “I’m thinking you’d look damn good bent over that counter.”

The woman doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blush. She simply steps in closer until her chest brushes mine. “You are not worried someone might come in?”

Liking where this is going, I give her a half smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone came in a sex shop.”

She laughs, low and throaty. “If someone walks in, I’ll just tell them I’m tied up.”

My eyes flick toward the bondage section. “You into that?” I ask and her smile turns positively filthy.

“You want to find out?” She grabs my hand and pulls me two aisles over, to a wall lined with cuffs, collars, gags, floggers, and enough rope to rig a sailboat.

There’s even a full leather body harness with silver rings that makes my eyebrows rise.

Jax picks up a pair of black leather cuffs and holds them out to me.

“These are soft on the inside. Real gentle. But strong. Won’t break, even if she begs. ”

“And if I don’t want to do gentle?”

Stepping closer, her voice drops. “I don’t usually beg. But I might for you.”

Fuck me sideways. I take the cuffs from her, testing the weight, the buckle, the give. “You’d let me strap you down right here?” I ask and she nods, her eyes locked on mine.

“If you tell me to.” I glance around the store again.

Still empty. Just flickering fluorescent lights and the faint moans coming from a porn loop on the screen behind the counter.

There’s a mirror mounted high on the wall near the ceiling, angled just right.

I catch a glimpse of myself. Tight black tee, faded black jeans, heat-flushed skin, the strap-on still in my hand.

I look like someone who could wreck a girl and walk out without a backward glance.

And maybe I’m exactly that. My hair is wild from the ride, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

Not pretty, not soft, just raw power, and for the first time in a long while, I recognize the woman staring back at me. She’s dangerous. She’s alive.

“What’s your safe word?” I ask, already reaching for the harness.

She licks her lips. “Don’t need one. I trust a woman who rides a Harley.”

“That’s a dangerous kind of trust.”

Stepping even closer, her breath is warm against my neck. “Then make it worth the risk.”

I press her back against the bondage display, the wall of toys rattling slightly behind her.

She doesn’t flinch. She tilts her head back, exposing her throat, and I kiss her there.

Just once, just enough to taste the salt on her skin.

I reach down, trail a finger along her waistband, barely under the hem of her tank top.

“You got a private room in this place?” I ask, my voice a growl.

She nods, breath hitching. “Staff room. Lock on the inside. No cameras.”

I grin. “Show me.”

Turning without another word she leads me through a beaded curtain behind the counter, and down a narrow hallway that smells like incense and sex.

The staff door creaks open, and I step inside behind her.

The room is barely bigger than a closet.

One battered desk, a cracked leather couch, a mini fridge humming in the corner, but it’s private, and that’s all I need.

Jax shuts the door behind us and turns the lock with a soft click that sounds like permission.

Her eyes are darker now, with her lips parted like she’s already imagining what I’m going to do to her.

Good. I want her imagining. I want her trembling.

I toss the harness and the thick black strap-on onto the desk, then turn to her.

“Strip,” I say. She doesn’t hesitate. Her hands go to the hem of her tank top, dragging it up and over her head in one fluid motion, revealing a black lace bra that barely contains her full tits.

She kicks off her boots, unbuttons her jeans, and slides them down her hips. No panties. Fuck. She’s ready for this.

Taking a moment, I just look. Drink her in like smooth whiskey after a long day. Her body is lean, all muscle and ink, curves in the right places, and that look in her eye, that mix of defiance and surrender, makes my pulse spike.

“Couch,” I say. “Face the wall. On your knees.”

She moves, climbing up onto the couch, facing the backrest, her hands gripping the top edge like she already knows what’s coming.

I grab the cuffs from the desk, step behind her, and fasten one around each wrist, then thread the connecting strap through a metal bracket holding a shelf on the wall above the couch.

It’s not what it was built for, but it’ll hold. She’s not going anywhere.

“You good?” I ask, my voice low.

She nods, breathless. “So fucking good.”

Stepping behind her, I run my hand slowly up the back of her thigh, over the curve of her ass, and between her legs. She’s soaked. Dripping. I trail two fingers through her lower lips and press them into her slowly, just to feel how tight she is, how much she’s already clenching around nothing.

“Fuck,” she moans, pushing back against me.

“Patience,” I murmur. “You’ll get more than you can handle.”

I slide my fingers out of her and grab the harness and strap-on from the desk, strapping it on over my jeans.

The leather hugs my hips like it was made for me, the thick black shaft jutting out in front of me, heavy and solid.

I stroke it once, slow and deliberate, as she watches me over her shoulder, shifting on the couch like she can feel it already.

“Look at you,” I say, stepping behind her again. “Tied up and begging for it.”

She moans, low and needy, and I line up the head of the toy with her entrance and tease her, running it through her folds, letting it drag over her clit.

She jerks forward, but the cuffs hold her in place.

“Please,” she whispers. I thrust in. One long, slow stroke, burying the strap-on deep inside her.

She cries out, her back arching, and I grip her hips, holding her steady as I start to move.

Slow at first, letting her feel every inch, then faster, harder, the sound of leather slapping on skin filling the tiny room.

She’s loud, raw, unfiltered. “Yes, fuck, yes! Harder. Don’t stop—”

I don’t.

I slam into her, the couch creaking under us, her ass bouncing against my hips.

Her hands are white-knuckled around the top of the couch, her body shaking with every thrust. I reach around and find her clit, rubbing it in tight circles as I fuck her deep and relentless.

She’s so wet, lube’s unnecessary, her slick coating the base of the toy, dripping down her thighs.

“God,” she gasps. “I’m gonna, fuck yes, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” I growl, pinching her clit hard. “Now.”

She shatters. Her whole body locks up, then convulses, a broken moan ripping from her throat as she comes hard around the toy, her muscles clenching so tight I feel it through the harness.

I keep fucking her through it, dragging it out, making her ride every wave until she’s slumped against the couch, panting.

But I’m not done. I pull out, unbuckle the cuffs, and turn her around.

Her legs are shaky, but I help her lie back, propping her ankles up on the arms of the couch, spreading her wide.

Her pussy’s red and swollen, twitching with aftershocks, but her eyes are wild with want.

“More?” I ask.

She nods, biting her lip. “Please.”

I slide back in, this time slow and deep, watching her face contort with pleasure.

She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me in tighter, and I fuck her like I own her.

Long strokes, grinding against her clit with every thrust. I lean down, kiss her hard, my tongue claiming her mouth while my hips claim the rest. She comes again. And again. And again.

“Oh, God,” she screams. “I can’t stop coming.” By the fifth orgasm, she is dripping juice everywhere, ruining the already fucked up couch. I slow down, stroking her hair as she trembles beneath me, her body limp with satisfaction.

Pulling out gently, I unstrap the harness and drop it to the floor. She watches me through hooded eyes as I sit beside her, pull her into my lap. Her skin’s hot, her breath still ragged, her lips kiss-swollen and perfect. “You okay?” I ask, brushing her hair back.

She nods, dazed. “Better than okay.”

I nod. “Good.”

She leans in and kisses me, soft and slow this time, like a thank you.

I let her. There’s a freedom in moments like this, no names, no numbers, no promises.

Just raw hunger met with equal need. I don’t kid myself that it means more, but that doesn’t make it meaningless.

And I already know how this ends. In a few minutes, I’ll be back on the bike with the strap-on in my saddlebag.

The road will swallow me up again, and this room will be nothing but a memory. But fuck if it won’t be a good one.