Monk and Sandy wound up in the back seat. They got soaked getting there, but that didn’t matter.
They kissed for a long time. It began with a kind of junkie urgency, on her part, now his. But the way he kissed her back changed the rhythm. His kiss was soft, gentle, respectful. He did not pull her to him but rather brushed her cheek with his fingers, doing it very softly. That sent a ripple through her and in the space of a heartbeat her kiss stopped being an attack and became a conversation. This is me, it said. This is who I am.
And he responded in the same language.
Their lips met and there was that awkward moment—very fleeting—as they became familiar with tastes and textures, with resistance and acceptance. When their tongues met, it was as tentative as opening eyes on a spring morning. Then the kiss built from there, rising and falling with intensity. Learning, exploring creativity and generosity, until they were breathing the same heated breaths.
He did not touch her first. He knew that he was allowed to, that was evident in the tensions he could feel in her kiss, and in her hands on his chest. But he was willing to wait, to yield power so that she understood how safe he really was.
The kiss went on and on as the rain fell. The windows were smoked dark already and a night full of rain probably made the car invisible, especially tucked away back here. Why would anyone come looking?
Sandy trailed her fingers down his chest, over his flat stomach, and onto his thigh. She paused, leaning back an inch to force eye contact. Then she took his right hand and kissed it—the knuckles, the hollow of his palm—and placed it over her heart. In any other circumstance it would have been trite, too romantic a gesture to be anything but a come-on. And there was some of that there, sure, but she wanted him to know something. That she trusted him.
The whole thing was about trust.
Monk kept his hand there while he bent to kiss her again.
Time became meaningless.
He undressed her in the back seat. She was the kind of woman who was made lean by clothes, but naked she was riper than Monk expected. Her breasts were full and high, and her nipples were an exquisite chocolate brown. He bent and exhaled hot breath on each before taking them into his mouth. She cried out and arched her back. His big, scarred hands discovered the landscape of her. She had many scars on her stomach and back, and Monk could feel vibrations of the evil things done to her. The guy part of him wanted to do ugly things to whoever had hurt her, but that was macho bullshit. The man in him accepted her as she was and on her own terms, offering neither pity nor bravado. She required neither from him.
She settled back as he slid onto his knees in the rear footwell. He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, kissing the cream-pale skin from knee to hip. Then he breathed another hot breath on the bud of her clitoris before bending closer still.
When she came she punched the back of the seat, the roof, and even his shoulders. She screamed so loud. She thrashed. Monk knew that it was not really about how well he’d gone down on her. She was releasing things that had nothing to do with him. He was her safe bridge from there to here.
She came again seconds later, one orgasm flowing into the next.
She did not call his name. She did not call God’s name. She said, “Please.”
Over and over again.
Afterward he held her. Naked, small, curled into him.
She wept against his chest for a long, long time. He didn’t own any of those tears and did not need to know who did. Sandy required a witness, and that’s what he was.
Then, her fingers touched his hardness through his jeans. He had shucked his jacket but was otherwise dressed. She sniffed and reached for his zipper, but Monk touched her hand.
“No,” he said.
“But I can’t leave you like that,” she said in a tiny voice. “You need to—”
“I don’t need a thing, Sandy.”
“But guys—”
“No,” he said. “Guys don’t need to come. There’s no such thing as blue balls. Any guy who says different is hustling you.”
She gave him a quizzical look. Her eye makeup was smeared by tears, her lipstick gone, her black hair in disarray. “Don’t you want me to … you know … help you?”
“As an obligation? No. And definitely not right now. Let’s just be for a minute, okay?” He kissed her. “I have the taste of you on my lips and that’s all I want right now.”
She settled back against him, wriggling closer still. Monk was deeply aroused, but all of his instincts told him to stop where and when he had. Maybe there’d be another time with her. With them. Right now, though, the echo of those tears filled his mind, and he wondered when the last time was that someone had been kind to her? Had valued her above their own hungers?
The night was so black that he couldn’t even see the rain beyond the windows. Monk leaned over and kissed her head, nuzzling in her hair.