I reached out to shoo it away, but the bug fluttered and landed on my forearm. “Hey, little guy.”
“There, now it can slurp on your juices.”
I grimaced. “God, O.”
“I know, okay? I knew the second I said it.”
“Can’t take you anywhere.”
We walked toward the exit and the butterfly remained, stuck to my arm hair, legs tangled in the brush. If it stayed, I would stay there all day, too. But at the door, as if it knew it couldn’t keep us company anymore, it took off.
“It was attached to you.” Ophelia smiled. “You should have snuck him out in your pocket.”
“That’s theft, you little klepto.” I pinched her side. “Fun fact—”
“Can’t be worse than the last one.”
We pushed through the doors of the exhibit. “A butterfly's life expectancy is only two to four weeks. So by the time you leave Florida, most of them will be dead.”
O paused in the walkway with a scowl. “Give me that.” She ripped her notepad out of my back pocket, swatting me in the ass with it before jotting down an aggressive note.
I cackled all the way through the rose garden.
20
Hours later we hopped back in the truck and I cranked the air conditioner to full blast. Both of us stuck our faces to the vents, letting out long, satisfied sighs to be out of the heat. Ophelia’s skin was flushed red, her cheeks like apples. A bead of sweat trickled down her neck behind her ear and I didn’t care how hot it was anymore after that.
I found myself imagining what kind of assholes were passing this woman by as we drove through town. She was the definition of a girl you took home to meet the family. So attractive it kept you awake at night, thinking about the way it’d feel to have her underneath you, at the same time so charming you wanted to protect and take care of her just as much as the physical stuff.
If that wasn’t enough, she was challenging. Smart, funny, effortlessly unhinged. Coy, but never shy. She gave my shit right back to me, which maybe some insecure little boy might find intimidating, but I ate it up.
She wasn’t a girl, though. Maybe that was the problem. Ophelia was dating men that wanted tame and behaved. They wanted low aspiration, stay at home with the kids, have dinner ready when they got home, and missionary sex lasting long enough to get her going but never enough to get her off.
Knowing she’d likely settle for that had me squeezing the steering wheel a little too tight.
In the passenger seat she was studying her notepad with the pen between her teeth. Her dress had ridden up a dangerous amount, tan legs sticking to the leather seats. She had to know how much skin she was showing—she always knew exactly what she was doing.
“You’re certified gold at random butterfly trivia.” She smiled around the end of the pen. “Great location choice, interesting conversation, good humor”—she rolled her eyes—“but could be better.”
“Boo,” I protested.
“Extra points for opening doors, holding hands, not sweating on said hands. Appropriate and well-fitting outfit.” Her eyes roamed over me. “A haircut wouldn’t hurt.”
I shrugged as we passed beneath a traffic light. “More to hold onto.”
She laughed. “God, do you ever turn it off?”
“Why would I when you’re sitting in my passenger seat with your dress around your hips like that practically daring me to pull over?”
That perfect bottom lip got a fresh bite, and she flipped her notepad closed. “Negatives: frisky touching, suggestive commentary—”
“Flirting,” I corrected her.
“Complete misunderstanding of The Great Gatsby.”
“The eyes are watching, the weather is hot, the green light blinks.”
“If flight training doesn’t work out I’m sure they’ll hire you at CliffsNotes.” She shifted in her seat to face me, and that dress slid up even higher. Fuck, please be wearing panties or I’m gonna drive off the goddamn road.
“Anything else, smartass? I might not be too dusty after all.”
“Yeah, your truck.”
“My truck?” I scoffed. “This truck is a machine. What’s wrong with my truck?”
“No bench seat.”
I lifted the large center console to reveal a middle seat between us. “Try again.”
Ophelia tossed her notebook onto the dash and unbuckled her seatbelt.
“What are you doing?” My attention waned between her and the highway. She stretched her top half across the bench, lying on her stomach. Her head was so close to my crotch that my palms started to sweat.
“Date’s over,” she noted mischievously.
I blew out an unsteady breath and my dick picked up a pulse as she reached out and unfastened my belt buckle, little fingers working at the bulge of my zipper. My entire stomach tensed in anticipation.
“Tell me you’re wearing your panties.”
She stopped briefly to smirk up at me. Fuck, that view. Then, she pulled her dress up past her perfect, tan-lined ass to show me there wasn’t even a goddamn string of fabric between my fingers and that sweet pussy. “You’re fucking trouble,” I mumbled. “But you know that already, huh?”
“I want to even the playing field.” She continued working on my shorts until my fly was completely loose. “So far I’m the only one that’s gotten any benefits out of this friendship.”
“I’ve gotten plenty,” I rasped, right hand abandoning the steering wheel to slide down her back and take a handful of bare skin. “This is breaking a whole list of laws, O.”
I checked the rearview and the side mirrors to see how alone we were. My chest pounded and every ounce of blood in my body did a deep dive to my crotch the second she reached beneath the band of my briefs to pull me out.
Another room at the fun house. This was roadhead Ophelia, and I hoped I never figured her out.
“Oh,” she mumbled. Seemingly to herself, but I heard every soft note of it.
“You don’t have to,” I told her, all the while using my free hand to massage the tense muscles at the back of her neck. She wrapped her fingers around me and I groaned like a fucking virgin. “It’s been a while.”
“Just drive, Frankie.” My focus shifted entirely to my lap as that first sampling lick of her tongue swept across the head of my cock. “Sweet,” she whispered.
Sweet. She called the taste of me sweet, and my legs tensed so hard I probably pulled a muscle. Then she licked me again, and again, and the knot in my stomach unfurled with pleasure and spread its way down to my toes.
“That’s real fucking good.” Flyaway hairs started falling in front of her eyes and I pushed them to the side. “Get me all wet.”
O took that literally, reeling her head back the tiniest bit and spitting on it.
“Jesus Christ.” My knuckles turned white on the wheel and I slowed to barely fucking sixty in the right lane. Nearly four years of pent-up sexual frustration felt close to spilling out of me already.
She worked her palm up and down, keeping her lips around the tip like a lollipop, and my hips lifted looking for more.
“I needed this.” My head fell back on the headrest and my eyes lidded. “Needed you so bad.”