Dad’s Best Friend John Price who teaches you how to drive. Owes some favors to the bastard who saved his life and can’t exactly say no when he cashes in on one with driving lessons for his daughter.
Not really complaining though, not when you’d walked out of your father’s house wearing a pair of shorts that exposed far too much of your thighs.
Can’t reach the clutch even with the seat pulled as far forward as it would go, so there’s no other option left love, except for you to sit in his lap, the soft heat of your ass pressed fully against the line of his cock that’d been half hard since the moment you climbed into the truck.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better. Now you can actually feel what you’re doing.”
Hand low on your stomach under the thin excuse of steadying you, the other resting high on your thigh, thumb already stroking slow, idle circles against the soft inner skin just beneath the hem of your shorts.
“Left foot on mine,” he instructs and you obeyed instantly- god, such a good girl- shoe settling over his boot, and his habd on your thigh slides higher, tips of his fingers slipping beneath fabric, resting against bare skin.
Cooing against your hair when he feels you tense, the way your breath catches for half a second before you force yourself still again.
Doesn’t move his hand away, just keeps it there, warm and heavy, thumb stroking higher in slow paths while he guides the clutch with your foot like this is all still just a lesson. Like he isnt already hard enough to ache under you. Like the soft globes of you ass isn’t pressed right against the thick line of his cock with nothing but two thin layers of fabric between you.
“Easy,” he murmurs against your hair, words soft, grip on your thigh not. “Seat’s tight. Keep still for me.”
Every tiny shift of your hips only makes him pull you closer, arm around your waist tightening, dragging you more firmly back against him so you can feel every inch of how hard he is for you now.
Hand under your shirt drifting lower, palm spreading over the soft skin of your stomach, fingers splayed, measuring the space he’s about to claim.
“You’re doing fine,” he says near your ear, voice low, gentle. “Just keep your hands on the wheel. That’s all you need to worry about right now.”
His fingers slipping beneath the edge of your underwear, two thick fingers pushing into your cunt, stretching you open. The wet sound of it obscenely loud in the quiet of the cab. His thumb finding your clit a, pressing down with the same controlled patience he uses for everything else.
“There we go,” he murmurs against your hair, when you head tips back, shuddering moans spilling out. “That’s better.”
Trying to close your thighs, feels too good, already trying to squirm away from the pleasure. His knee forcing them back open, keeping them right where he wants them.
Clicks his tongue while he works you open with, fingers curling deep every time your breath hitches. The arm around your waist never loosens, trapped between his body and the steering wheel, impaled on his fingers, forced to take exactly what he gives you.
“Listen to you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “My best mate’s little girl, dripping all over my hand. Been thinking about this for ahilw. You know how many times I’ve sat across from your father and looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like clamped around me while he had no idea?”
He doesn’t stop when you start shaking, doesn’t ease up when your thighs tremble or when soft, broken sounds start spilling out of you. Just keeps going, thick fingers relentless, thumb steady, until you come with a quiet, wrecked little cry, clenching hard around him.
Price humming low in his chest and keeps his fingers inside you while the aftershocks roll through.
“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s one.”
You hear the soft sound of his belt being undone, the quiet drag of his zipper, the blunt, hot head of his cock pressing against your cunt, slick with your own mess, and there’s nowhere to go.
“Stay still for me,” he says against your ear, voice almost gentle again as he starts to push in, arms locking tighter around your waist. “Just like that. Nice and slow.”
Sinking into you, stretching you open around the thick length until he’s fully seated and your breath is punched out of your lungs.
“There,” he breathes, almost reverent. “Fuck. That’s it. That’s what I’ve been thinking about every time I looked at you.”
He thrusts hard, just once, and the sound you make makes him groan low in his chest, and he starts moving, doesn’t give you time to adjust, strokes that force you to feel every inch of him, free hand sliding up to rest around your throat, holding you in place while he fucks you with the same patience he used on the clutch as he thinks about how much your father trusts him.
Who’s going to look him in the eye later and thank him for teaching his daughter how to drive. How you’re going to sit across from him at dinner with his best friend’s come still leaking out of you.
