Roadside Service

The summer heat was melting the asphalt outside, and inside her little sedan, it was stifling even with the AC cranked to max. Igor—Sergei's best friend, her husband's best friend—sat in the passenger seat, his denim-clad knee almost brushing her leg where it rested on the gearshift. Lena could feel that heat through the thin cotton of her sundress, radiating into her skin, and she gripped the steering wheel to keep her fingers from trembling.

"Pull over," he said suddenly, not looking at her, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"Why? We're still half an hour from town."

"Pull over, Lena. I know you heard what I said yesterday, by the garage, when I was talking to Sergei about you."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. She'd thought she was being quiet, that the wind would swallow his whispered words: "...I'd fuck her right on the hood, she gets so wet just being near me." She eased onto the shoulder, a cloud of dust rising around the car, and killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the drone of crickets beyond the glass.

"So what did you hear?" Her voice came out rough, scraped raw.

Igor turned to face her. His eyes held the same thing she'd seen yesterday—something hungry, something dark. Without a word, he took her chin in his hand, his thumb tracing along her lower lip. Lena felt everything inside her clench at that touch—so simple, so brazen.

"That I want you," he said, and it sounded like a verdict. "That I jerk off to your bikini pics every night. That you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and Sergei doesn't deserve you."

She wanted to protest, to say it was wrong, that they were friends. But instead she breathed out:

"He's my husband."

"He doesn't kiss you the way I want to kiss you," Igor said, leaning in, and she could feel his breath on her lips. "He doesn't know how you smell when you're turned on. But I do. I see your nipples get hard every time I'm near you."

Lena surrendered. It was shameful, wrong, but she'd been soaked since the moment he asked her to pull over. She reached across the center console and kissed him herself—greedy, fierce, biting his lip, letting his tongue in. Igor groaned into her mouth, threading his fingers through her hair, tilting her head back to expose her throat.

"I want you," he whispered, trailing his lips down to her collarbone, "all of you. Right here."

He undid her sundress with one motion, and she didn't even have time to help—just arched into him when his palm covered her breast. The dress slipped from her shoulders, and Igor looked at her with such hungry adoration that Lena forgot to breathe. He dipped his head and took her nipple in his mouth, wet and scorching, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out at the contrast—the cool AC air and his burning mouth.

"Sergei never..." she gasped when he switched to her other breast, "never did this."

"I know." He lifted his head, his voice steady. "That's why you're going to take off those panties and get on top of me. Yourself."

Something inside her rebelled, but her hands were already working his belt, shoving his jeans and boxers down to his knees. Igor pushed his seat back as far as it would go, and she climbed over the center console, landing in his lap. Cramped, awkward, the steering wheel digging into her lower back—but when she sank down, feeling his cock spread her slick folds apart, all discomfort vanished.

"Oh, Lena..." he exhaled as she lowered herself slowly, taking him inch by inch. "God, you're so tight."

She froze, feeling him inside her—to the hilt, to the point of trembling. Igor held her hips, not moving, letting her adjust, just watching—her parted lips, her hazy eyes. She began to move on her own—slowly, torturously, rising almost all the way off him and then sinking back down, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Yeah..." he gripped her ass, helping, guiding, "just like that. Don't stop."

The car smelled of leather seats, her perfume, and their sweat. Igor kissed her breasts, her neck, sucked her earlobe between his teeth while she rode him, faster now, deeper. His thumb found her clit, and Lena arched, a cry escaping her as he pressed in rhythm with her movements.

"Yes," she whispered, "don't stop, please, I'm so close..."

"Cum for me," he said, fisting her hair at the nape of her neck, forcing her head back, "I want to watch you cum on my cock."

She shattered. The wave rolled up from her belly, flooding hot through her entire body, and she moaned, nails biting into his shoulders—short, strangled, almost animal. Igor gripped her so hard she felt him tense, thrust up into her a few more times, and then froze, exhaling into her hair:

"Fuck... Lena..."

She sat on him, feeling their breathing slow, feeling his heartbeat echo inside her. On the windshield, their reflection—disheveled, sweaty, blissful. Igor stroked her back, and it was almost tender.

"What do we tell Sergei?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing." He kissed her forehead. "And if he asks, we'll say the car broke down. And we had to wait a very long time for a tow truck."

Lena smirked, sliding off him back into her seat, straightening her sundress. She started the engine, and when they pulled onto the highway, Igor didn't take her hand—but he laid his palm on her bare knee. And she didn't move it away. All the way home.