"Here," he finally says, stepping up beside me as I pass in front of a twenty-four-hour bodega located next to a poorly lit pay-to-park lot.
"Here?"
"Problem?" he asks innocently.
"We rode across the city to
go to a market?"
"We did." He leaves it at that and goes inside.
I follow, both curious and amused.
The bodega serves ice cream, hand scooped into waffle cones, and Dallas orders a vanilla one. It costs less than two dollars, and we're on our way again.
"I come here at least once a week," he says. "Best ice cream in the city."
"Mmm." I don't know what he's up to, but I'm pretty sure it's not a snack break.
Instead of heading back the way we came, he leads me into the parking area, all the way into the back, past the last flickering yellow light, so that we are hidden in the shadows cast on the rough brick wall of the building that marks the back edge of this lot.
I look up at Dallas, intending to ask what happens now, but the words die on my tongue. All teasing has gone from his eyes, replaced by a burning desire so potent my knees go weak and my pussy clenches.
I watch as he licks the ice cream cone, and then have to stifle a moan when he brings the cone to my lips and orders me to taste it. I do. It's creamy and sweet and I want to lick it from his lips.
"Remember this, baby," he says, then taps the cone against my nose before licking the spot off. "This is as vanilla as I get."
I swallow. "Dallas." I don't say anything more. I'm not even sure what I was going to say.
"Lift your skirt."
I start to protest--we're outside, after all--but the truth is that his words have excited me. Both the idea and the no-nonsense command with which he's issued the order.
I raise the skirt until my sex is exposed.
"Oh, no, sweetheart. All the way."
I bite on my lower lip, but I do as he says, and as I do, I watch him. His eyes are on my pussy at first, but he lifts his head, then meets my eyes, and I want to cry out in victory at the look in his eyes. A look that says that I am his. And, yes, that he is mine.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
"You," I say simply. "Whatever you want me to do. Whatever you want to do to me."
"Whatever?" I notice the cone is starting to drip over his hand. "So if I told you to turn around and let me fuck that sweet ass right here, you'd be okay with that?"
"Yes." My nipples peak at the thought.
"If I told you to drop to your knees and suck my cock?"
"You know I would."
He leans closer and whispers in my ear. "And if I told you to move to the light and get yourself off in full sight of anyone walking by, simply because I want you to? Because you're mine now?"
I swallow, both aroused and repelled by the thought. But I don't tell him that. Instead I say, "Whatever you tell me, Dallas. I'm yours. I thought I made that clear."
My words are like an ignition switch, and he launches forward, his hands caging me, his mouth hungry on mine. I'm gasping, wildly aroused, my body on fire.
He closes his mouth over my breast, practically bare in the tank top. Then he moves lower still. I'm trembling against the brick, on fire from everything--his commands, his touch, the wild exhibitionism of this night.