Page 15 of Goose

“Since Ghost died, I haven’t eaten anything other than a couple of mouthfuls of pity, and a handful of sorrow,” he said dryly. “I couldn’t choke anything else down. Sitting in that diner, talking to you, I started feeling normal again. Not completely, but enough that I’m thinking I might be able to get through this. Right now, that half a hamburger’s worn off, and I’m hungry. So hungry it hurts.”

He tilted his head toward the restaurant. “So, I’m going in there to eat. After we’re done, we’ll reevaluate this situation. Just know while we’re in there eating shrimp baskets and fish fucking tacos that the reason we’re in there instead of fucking is because I’m goddamned hungry.”

He pressed the heel of his palm along the length of his cock. It did little to resolve matters. He looked like he was trying to smuggle a zucchini from Whole Foods without paying for it.

He tilted his head toward the restaurant. “C’mon.”

Eating, at least at that moment, seemed ridiculous. He was walking in with a raging stiffy, and I was so soaking wet I was uncomfortable.

Men like him came along once in a lifetime. I planned on taking advantage of the situation as soon as he had a full stomach. For the time being, however, I had a point to prove.

I hung my helmet on the handlebars. After getting off the motorcycle, I stepped so close to him my boobs were smashed against his chest. I pulled off my sunglasses and met his downward gaze.

“Touch my pussy,” I whispered.

With thin eyes, pursed lips, and not one ounce of hesitation, he reached between my legs. He tugged against the hem of my shorts. His hand slipped beneath my panties. A surge of excitement rushed through me.

I held my breath, and his gaze.

He slid his finger along my wet slit, and then inserted it knuckle-deep.

A breath fluttered past my lips. I narrowed my eyes to mimic his. “Does that feel like I’m scared of you, Mister?”

Standing on the sidewalk, thirty feet from the door of the restaurant, he finger-banged me to the brink of an orgasm.

He paused. “Scared?” His finger tickled my inner regions. “I’m thinking not.”

“Are you scared of me?” I asked.

He cackled a laugh. “Not. One. Bit.”

I gripped his wrist firmly and raised his hand to my face.

His narrow eyes went wide.

I sucked my juices from his finger. “Well,” I said, arching a suggestive eyebrow. “You ought to be.”