The End Of The Road

Nesty sticks her bare feet on the dash and wiggles her toes like a big flashing sign. Charlie glances over and nearly swerves. He pulls the car over onto the shoulder, kills the engine, and the next thing Nesty knows her ankles are hooked over the steering wheel while Charlie works her with his tongue and fingers like he just found the best playlist on the radio. Shoes off, windows cracked, summer air slipping in while they do exactly what you think two people parked on the side of the road do. She bites the seat-belt strap to stay quiet, but he keeps urging her louder, faster, toes curling against the head-rest. Pure road-trip porn—no seat-belts, no plans, just skin and giggles and the risk of someone driving past at exactly the wrong second.