Weston’s eyes glittered. He side-stepped around me to one of the washers and twisted the dial. The machine turned on and began to hum. Turning back to me, he ran his tongue across his bottom lip as his eyes swept over my body from neck to toes.
“Hike up your skirt.”
My eyes jumped to his. “What?”
“Up around your ass. Hike it up.”
I hesitated, but honestly, I was so turned on that there wasn’t much he could ask that I wouldn’t do. Grabbing the hem of my skirt, I bunched it up until the material was gathered around my waist. Standing with everything from my waist to my toes completely on display left me exposed in so many ways.
Weston stepped forward, gripped my waist with two hands, and lifted me off my feet. He carried me over to the washing machine he’d turned on and gently set me on top.
“Spread your legs.”
I opened them a little.
Weston shook his head slowly. “Wider. One leg on each side of the machine. Straddle it for me.”
At that moment, the empty washing machine began to vibrate. It started slow, but quickly ramped up to jumping around like a Mexican bean.
Weston saw the concern on my face and smiled. “It’s fine. An empty washer on spin cycle isn’t going to buck you off, so spread those legs for me.”
It might’ve been the strangest thing I’d ever considered. Nevertheless, I did as he instructed and spread my legs wide enough to straddle the machine, one leg hanging over each side.
Weston smiled. “Now, lean forward a little bit.”
I gripped the front edge of the washing machine and shifted my weight from my ass to my hips. The sensitive skin between my legs met the cold metal, but I quickly realized why he wanted me to tilt forward.
Oh my God.
Oh wow.
My eyes wanted to roll back into my head.
The empty washing machine vibrated and bumped around. When I tilted forward, all of the sensation hit my most sensitive spot. It felt like I was holding a vibrator between my legs, only better. For the first time in my life, I might’ve felt all eight-thousand nerve endings firing at once. My jaw went slack, and a sheen of sweat broke out over my skin.
Weston’s eyes were glued to my face. The heat emanating from him blazed off the charts. I thought for sure this was just a quick bit of foreplay, but then he walked over to one of the out-of-service washing machines on the far side of the room and climbed on top.
“Wha… What are you doing?” I asked. With the vibration between my legs, I could barely string together a few cohesive words.
Weston reached above his head to the ceiling and started screwing with the tiles the plumber had left displaced.
“Fixing the ceiling.”
“Now?” I screeched.
He chuckled. “Trust me, we both need a few minutes. Seeing you with that douchebag got the best of me. That machine is giving you foreplay you wouldn’t be getting from me. You have no idea how much I need to pound the thought of that guy from the bar out of your head. Plus, I was on edge already and wouldn’t have lasted for very long.”
Since I was in no condition to argue and it felt so damn good, I closed my eyes and figured I’d enjoy the ride. A few minutes later, I felt Weston’s hot breath on my neck.
“We still playing by your rules?”
The question confused me because it seemed like Weston was the one making up the rules for whatever game we were playing.
He must’ve seen the question on my face.
Pushing a lock of hair behind my ear, he said, “No kissing. Only from behind.”
In the moment, I really wanted him to kiss me. Yet something inside me felt like that wouldn’t be a good idea. So I swallowed and nodded.
Weston’s lips flattened to a line, and the muscle in his jaw flexed. Yet he gave a curt nod, lifted me off the washing machine, and set me on my feet. “Turn around. Bend over the washer.”
My skirt had fallen into place, so he hiked it back up to my waist. The sound of his belt unbuckling, zipper teeth separating, and the foil of a condom wrapper tearing coiled tension in my lower belly. Weston leaned over me, covering my back with his front, and I felt him nudge at my opening. He settled his mouth at my ear and bit before grumbling, “Dumb fucking rules. You better hold on tight.”
***
Remember the first time you walked into your house after you’d been out drinking with your friends at age fifteen and you found your parents in the living room, still awake? You weren’t sure whether you should do a quick wave and attempt to escape to your room or if that in itself might raise suspicion. But if you went and sat down on the couch, there was a distinct chance your parents would either smell the alcohol on you or you’d slur your speech.