“Babe! Did you see that cunt’s face when I flashed him my tits and put the gun through the window?” Kyrie’s mind buzzed like a wasp’s nest. “Funniest shit I ever saw!”
The windshield wipers offered a loud whee-slap in reply. All the windows were fogging up, rendering the world outside the charcoal Camry a neon haze.
“Driving.” Dicky’s grip on the wheel tightened as he eased the stolen car through another four-way stop. He swapped the matchstick from the right side of his mouth to the left, but Kyrie knew he wanted to smile. It was fuckin’ funny!
“How much you think Nate’ll get for it?” She cast a wild-eyed look at the duffel bag sitting on the back seat just to be sure it was still there.
“Driving,” Dicky repeated, and the matchstick moved back to the right side of his mouth. whee-slap! The wipers were fighting a losing battle against the rain, doing little more than smearing the water into an oily film.
Bouncing back in the passenger seat, Kyrie narrowed her eyes at the police cruiser on the opposite side of the intersection. It was just sitting at the red light. No hint they suspected the car. Why would they? Would they?
“I want some fuckin’ music!” Her voice was panic-shrill, and she poked at the Camry’s infotainment system. “Nate’s gonna shit himself when he sees this score!” She squealed with delight and started singing along with the radio. “…Come alive. Cross the line. Tell me ‘don’t’. Watch me shine.”
The lights turned green. Dicky eased the car through the intersection with caution appropriate to the weather. Kyrie did her best to sit still in her seat, but she couldn’t stop squirming. She winked at the cop as the cars passed each other.
“Kyrie. Cool.” Dicky’s jaw was doing that thing again. She hated that thing. The thing made her feel like a child.
She glared at Dicky’s stone-face, voice turning icy and clipped. “I’ll be cool.”
She slid down into the footwell, then turned her back to the door. “Hands on the wheel,” she purred while turning the volume up on the radio.
“Kyrie—”
“Cool,” she hissed, growing properly angry, and he seemed to understand. He worked the matchstick in his mouth but said nothing more.
She unbuckled his belt first, yanking it completely free of the loops and draping it around her neck. Next was the button at the top of his khakis, her fingers working with practised ease. She pulled his dress shirt free of the waist then began pulling down the zipper as slowly as she could manage.
The car came to a stop. Three centimetres.
The car turned to the left. Four more.
The car braked hard, and the back of Kyrie’s head hit the steering wheel. “Fucker!”
“Sorry,” Dicky whispered, finally sounding a little unsteady.
Five more.
“We got a tail.”
“Then fuckin’ drive!” The buzz in the back of her head grew louder as adrenaline flooded her veins. She slipped her fingers inside his silky boxers and freed him. He was only half-erect so far, but Kyrie knew how to fix that.
She took him in her mouth without ceremony, swallowing him deep in one fluid motion. The taste of salt and something musky hit her tongue, and she hummed low in her throat as he thickened against her palate. He was impossibly smooth, and already weeping a rich, viscous slick that coated her tongue. The Camry’s suspension ate the potholes, sending rhythmic shudders through her body that her mouth brought to his hips. She wrapped her fingers around the base, feeling the velvety lower ridge throb against her thumb, and took him deeper, letting her throat flutter on instinct.
“Steady,” he grunted, voice fraying at the edges. From her angle on the floorboard, she only saw his knuckles bleaching white on the leather-wrapped wheel.
Kyrie’s tongue chased the underside with deliberate, vicious precision. The heavy synth-bass from the radio thumped, competing with the whee-slap of the wipers and the sudden, sharp intake of his breath. She slurped noisily while she bobbed her head, and squeezed his root with her fingers, but then a new idea occurred. She curled the tip of her tongue along his frenulum. She knew he was especially sensitive there.
No warning. His foot slammed on the gas. Kyrie gagged as she was thrust down on him, and his glans butted against her throat. The engine whined, tires screeching as the Camry fishtailed onto the wet asphalt. “Blues lit up!” he barked, voice cracking into something guttural and raw.
Streaks of emergency red and blue bled through the rain-fogged windshield. The car lurched, throwing her forward, but Kyrie kept her mouth locked on him, sucking harder, determined to ride the panic out of his system. His pelvis jerked, an involuntary thrust against her lips. She felt the rigidity shift, the heavy, velvet weight of his balls drawing tight against his body. The scrotum pulled taut, veins mapping like corded rope.
“Kyrie—”
She hollowed her cheeks as she worked his length harder still, craving her reward, her tribute. She cradled his cock with her tongue and thrust her face down savagely into his crotch. Her fluttering throat opened for him, and his tip was all the way inside.
He went rigid. His shoulders flexed, hands holding the wheel with a death-grip, and then he broke. A wet, choked groan tore free of him as he erupted. A hot, thick jet of cum exploded down her throat. She gagged again, but even as she pulled back, she kept him in her mouth. Another, stronger than the first, overwhelming. She swallowed greedily, dragging her tongue along the twitching shaft, milking every last pulse from his tightening sack until he was softening between her lips, his ragged breath washing over her hair in the cramped, neon-drenched dark.
Kyrie hopped back up in the passenger seat, Dicky’s belt still around her neck, licking her lips, catching a single drop that escaped. She didn’t even bother to tuck him back in. “We’re gonna be fuckin’ rich, babe! Hey, are they still behind us? I gotta pee.”
