Free Good Time Girl by Candace Schuler

fantasy, hers for the taking, if she dared. She’d never done what he was suggesting, not in a moving vehicle. Not in a vehicle at all, actually. Not anywhere. The world of lovers’ lanes and teenage sex in the back seat of Daddy’s car hadn’t been one she’d ever been invited to enter. There had been no heavy petting in somebody’s rec room or fogging up the windows in a parked car. She’d been nearly twenty-four, a responsible adult with a job and her own apartment when she surrendered her virginity. By then, there had been no need for furtive sex or forbidden thrills. She’d always wondered what she’d missed. What it would be like to indulge in frenzied sex acts that stopped short of intercourse.
    Now was her chance to find out.
    She couldn’t resist.
    Didn’t want to resist.
    Feeling decadent and daring, she squeezed him slowly, leisurely, measuring the length and hardness of his erection beneath her palm. He was satisfyingly hard, deliciously long, gloriously thick. She made a purring sound in her throat and tiptoed her fingers up the straining bulge to the metal button at the top of his fly.
    His stomach muscles contracted.
    She flicked the button open.
    He drew in a quick, hard breath.
    She grasped the waistband of his jeans between her thumb and forefinger and gave a sharp little tug. The remaining buttons of his fly popped open, one after the other, slowly—pop, pop, pop—each one a tiny explosion of sound that was more felt than heard. Without giving herself a chance to chicken out, she flattened her palm against his washboard stomach, slid her fingertips under the elastic edge of his briefs, and burrowed down between his legs.
    His breath hissed out between clenched teeth and he shifted in his seat, spreading his knees to accommodate her and give her room to explore.
    She caressed his balls, cupping them gently in her palm for a delicious moment, and then curled her fingers around his hot, rigid flesh, and began a slow squeezing stroking meant to drive him mad.
    He seemed to swell in her hand, becoming harder and longer and thicker with each stroke. He had both hands on the wheel, now, his knuckles white with the ferocity of his grip. His breathing was fast and shallow. His upper lip was beaded with sweat. His foot was a lead weight on the accelerator.
    Roxanne was surprised to find her excitement matching his. Her breathing was fast and shallow. Her pulse was racing. Her body was tingling. She hadn’t realized it would be like that, hadn’t imagined that being the seducer would be as thrilling as being seduced. She felt incredibly powerful, incredibly sexual, incredibly female.
    She wanted—desperately—to make him come with just her hands alone.
    She released her seat belt and shifted in her seat, twisting her body sideways so she could reach over the console with her right hand and cup his balls through his jeans. With her left, she continued the long squeezing strokes, using her thumb to spread the pearl of moisture that appeared at the tip of his penis and increase the friction, moving her fist faster and faster as she felt his tension build.
    Tom stiffened and made a low, guttural sound deep in his throat. The car swerved, the back end fishtailing wildly, spewing up gravel as he steered it onto the shoulder of the road and stomped on the brakes. Roxanne’s body was propelled forward, and then back against the seat, but her rhythm never faltered. She was intent on one thing, and one thing only, and wasn’t stopping until she got it.
    And then it happened.
    With his hands tight on the steering wheel, his arms rigid, his boot heels pressed against the floor, his head pressed back into the headrest, Tom uttered a harsh, rasping cry, and erupted in a spectacular orgasm. Roxanne watched it happen, entranced and enthralled.
    She had done that.
    She had made him lose control.
    She had made him come.
    She felt triumphant. Exultant. Victorious. Smug.
    “Your turn,” he said, and grabbed her by the