“You’re right. It’s cello, you wanker.”
I grin. “That too. Wanking means jerk off, right? Because, yes.”
“I meant you were a git. An idiot. But figures you’re really a wanker too.” She opens her legs slightly and runs two fingers across the flimsy crotch panel of her panties. “Sometime I’d like to watch,” she says, and I have to think about my high school gym teacher Mr. Al so that I don’t cream myself.
All of a sudden, she crosses her legs and folds her arms over her chest. “Or I’m just putting you on.”
I groan. “I was enjoying the show. And it wasn’t your turn. But you’d definitely like to watch. I can arrange that for you, you know.” I move to work on my belt—not that I’m actually planning to give myself a handjob, but I would like her to notice how stiff I am at the moment.
“Not right now!” She half giggles, half screeches. “You’re driving!”
“All right, all right.” Reluctantly, I rest my hand back on the steering wheel—like she said, I am driving. “I’m really itching to get you naked though. So this one’s going to be a really hard one. Let’s see…” I trail off in thought. “I’m a big Marvel fan. Or I’ve never asked a woman to marry me before.”
Whoa, Chandler. That’s a little too much info for a girl you’re just sexing.
Luckily she glosses over it. “Marvel? What’s Marvel? I pick that one as the lie.”
“Oh my god, you did not.” I pretend she’s shot me in the heart—which isn’t far from the truth.
Her eyes widen as it clicks. “Oh, you mean those superhero movies? The ones with The Hulk and Superman?”
“Superman is not in the…” I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t even believe I’m with a girl who doesn’t know the difference between Marvel and DC Comics. You know what? You take something extra off just for that.”
She’s giggling again. Have I mentioned how much I love the sound? So much that I’d embarrass myself purposefully just to hear it. “Obviously I got the answer wrong,” she says. “I’m not taking off two items. That’s not how the rules go. But tell you what—I’ll take off something good.”
“Your panties?” I might sound eager. I’m not a proud man.
“I’ll take off my shirt.”
“That will do.”
She looks around. There are other cars on the highway, and it’s broad daylight. She’s going to be seen by someone. I’m betting she’s about to chicken out.
But she surprises me when she whips off her tank and tosses it behind her, leaving her in nothing but a matching white bra and panties.
The exclamations of gratitude that are running through my mind aren’t even words. They’re more like sounds. Grunts. Random syllables. I’m so turned on right now, it’s not even funny.
“Don’t get pulled over, okay?”
“Um, all right.” I immediately ease my foot onto the brakes. “This game is going to get out of hand real soon.” If it’s not already. I adjust myself again, but it doesn’t help. At all.
“Oh, I don’t think so. I think I’m going to win! What do I get if I do?”
“A spanking.” Which is also what she’ll get if I win, but I don’t tell her that.
“Hey, I didn’t agree to touching.”
“You already opened that door when you rubbed your hand all over my chest. Now take your turn.”
“I did do that, didn’t I? Hmm. Let’s see.” She strokes her hand up and down the strap of her seatbelt while she thinks. “I love live theater. But do I prefer musicals? Or plays?”
I answer without hesitation. “Plays.”
“Take off the belt, buddy.”
“Hang on.” I hold up one finger to scold her. “First of all, you don’t get to choose what comes off.”
She pouts her full lips dramatically. “Come on. I should at least have a say. It’s my reward, after all. Besides, the belt is easy when you’re driving. I can even help you.” She reaches over and why am I even arguing?
“Well. Okay.” I let her work on my belt, let her brush my dick “accidentally”—spoiler: it’s not an accident. We both know that she’s fooling no one. “But, really? Musicals? I thought you’d be all into that serious boring shit. You know, Agatha Christie. Shakespeare. Downton Abbey.”
“Downton Abbey is a television show. Not a play.”
I sit forward so she can pull the belt from its loops without snagging. “But it’s BBC and boring. Isn’t that what you Brits like? Boring things? Musicals seem so…not boring.” I’m teasing her. Hard.
“You’re a bit of an ignorant clod, aren’t you? Brits like boring things,” she scoffs. “Who makes misinformed generalizations like that?”
“I think we already know the answer to that question. And now I’ve been schooled. Go on, tell me about your love of musicals.”
Let me pause to say that I don’t mind musicals. I’ve seen all of one in my entire life—Wicked, for Mirabelle’s birthday a few years ago. It was fine. Entertaining. I could see more of the same for Genevieve’s sake. You know, for the sake of a really good roll in the sheets after.
She wraps my belt around her shoulders, wearing it like a trophy scarf, her hands gripping both ends. “I will not. I’m afraid that you’ll ruin one of my favorite things.”