In New York the next morning, I fuck Lucy as I drive. She slides her underwear down around her tall boots, hikes up the hem of her skirt, and bares her whole cunt to me. I slide my fingers down the hill of her pubic mount, past the nub of her clit, causing her to suck in breath, and then down to where she parts, where she is soaking. I slide around without really penetrating her—teasing. She clutches the armrest and slides her right hand up to the grab handle.
“Is this—“ She breathes in and out, moans, arches a little, “Is this safe? Are you—fuck.”
It is. The road is even and wide and it is early enough that traffic nonexistent. I am aroused as I fuck her, as the car fills with the scent of her and she writhes against my hand, but the control is part of the pleasure. I steer as well as I would normally, maybe even better. Blood is pooling between my legs but I manage to tamp down on it. She needs to come. I need her to come.
I have noticed, in these days, that Lucy comes very easily. Some lovers in my life have been particular about the way they are touched, but not her. So I fuck her a little and then back off, letting her moan and squirm, forbidding her from touching herself. Then I go back in, speeding up, slowing down, and she touches her nipples through her shirt, and hits the automatic light in the ceiling with her palm and breaks it. I slow down and then stop as I see the sea of cars that are sitting bumper-to-bumper as people ease from four lanes to one to avoid construction.
“Fuck,” Lucy says, and it is not an “oh-no, traffic,” it is the voice of a woman who wants to come and now will have to wait.
We sit. We turn on the radio. Lucy squirms in her seat. We move one foot, two, three. The traffic picks up a bit but we are only going ten miles an hour, at most.
I slip my hand back between her legs.
“People are going to see us,” she says in a whisper, as if someone will overhear.
“Let them,” I say, then, “Is this okay?”
Do they know? The people we are driving past? Some of them are looking out their car windows and see a woman writhing, my arm flexing, but do they put it together before we move beyond them? I catch her clit between my fingers and slide up, down, up, down, and Lucy’s voice slides down into another register.
“Yes, that, yes, yes, exactly like, don’t stop, don’t, don’t—”
My arm aches, and my fingers slide in her wetness, and she gasps and pushes her feet against the floor of the car, and as the cars in front of me become a sea of brake lights, one two three I hit the brakes hard and stop directly next to the car of a middle-aged businessman who is on his cell phone. Lucy pushes up, up, and I keep jerking, and as she comes she slams her hand into the window, over and over. The man turns his face slowly to the left and stares at Lucy as she relaxes. I ease my hand out from between Lucy’s thighs. The man says something into the phone and hangs up. His hands disappear beneath the line of the window.
The cars in front of us move, and we move. We slide past the construction, and the road is open again. Lucy cleans herself up with tissues from the glove compartment.
A whole day’s drive ahead of us. New England, here we come.