Chapter 1
Before We Begin…
Hi, friend.
I’m really glad you’re here.
This story starts fast. It gets funny. Then it gets a little messy. Then it gets honest. And somewhere in the middle of all that, two very imperfect adults try to figure out whether what they’re feeling is just electricity… or something that might actually last.
If you want to explore more of my books and the world we're building around these stories, everything lives over at kiralorneromance.com. No obligation, just more stories waiting if you want them.
Okay.
Seatbelts on.
Let’s begin, Kira
The blue Corvette rumbled down Highway 40.
Curtis Firdam should have been watching the road, but he kept stealing glances at Callie, his girlfriend of three weeks. She was twenty-seven, six years younger than him, and he was already, helplessly, completely in love.
And right now, there was a lot to love.
Callie was folded crookedly into the bucket seat, one foot awkwardly hooked over the center console, her sundress ridden up just enough to give him a clear view of her green-and-orange polka dot panties.
“They’re green and orange, Curtis,” she said, giggling. “Just orange doesn’t count.”
Curtis tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “The question was what color your underwear was today. I guessed orange. I think that should count. I mean, the stakes are pretty high here, so I’m sticking with my judgment.”
Callie wiggled, then slipped her fingers under the hem of her blue sundress, sliding the offending garment down her hips, over her thighs, and off her feet in one smooth, unhurried motion.
Giggling, she held them up triumphantly. “See? Orange and green. There’s more green than orange. Judges agree with me.”
“That decision cost me a position pick tonight,” Curtis said. “I would think you’d give me the call.”
Callie laughed, bright and delighted. “I just took off my underwear in your car at seventy miles an hour. I think you won the argument, Curtis.”
They were five miles past Amarillo.
Curtis’s hand had wandered to Callie’s thigh.
She raised an eyebrow. “So I remove my underwear and you just start the finger creep?”
He smirked. “I thought it was an invitation.”
“That’s rather forward of you, sir. Maybe I was just letting my thighs breathe. You’re making assumptions.”
Curtis gave a theatrical sigh and began to pull his hand away. “You’re right.”
“No, no, no,” she said quickly, grabbing his wrist and dragging his hand right back where it had been. “Go with your gut, Curtis.”
Callie twisted in her seat, trying to give him better access, but the layout was not built for improvised finger gymnastics.
She angled her hips, slid closer, and let her head fall against his shoulder, her breath already catching as his hand moved between her legs again.
“Jesus,” she muttered, struggling against the curve of the bucket seat. “Who designed this car—someone who hates women?”
Curtis tried not to laugh as his knuckles bumped the gear shift. “That’s the performance package, sweetheart.”
“Well, it’s performing like a chastity belt.” She squirmed again, trying to spread her thighs wider, only to hit the stick with her knee. “Ow. Great. I’m getting impaled by manual transmission.”
Her head thumped softly against his shoulder. “This is so undignified.”
Curtis didn’t move his hand. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m sideways. There are napkins under my ass. My dress is halfway up my stomach. And I’m gonna die in this seat with one leg tangled in the emergency brake.”
“You’re still beautiful.”
She groaned dramatically. “At my funeral, I want it in the eulogy. ‘She came violently in a Corvette and blamed the shifter.’”
He grinned. “I’ll have it engraved.”
“You better,” she murmured, wrapping her hand around his wrist again. “Now keep going. If I’m dying here, I want the full performance package.”
Curtis had one hand on the wheel and the other buried under her dress.
“You might as well be useful,” she added, grabbing his wrist and dragging his fingers up between her thighs like it was a directive, not a suggestion.
Now she guided him deliberately, her fingers closing around his as she traced small circles with his hand. Her breath hitched.
Curtis leaned forward, laughing breathlessly. “Callie, I love this. Truly. But my dick is pointed the wrong way in my pants. I can’t lean back.”
“Focus, Curtis,” she said, smiling without opening her eyes. “Work through the pain.”
She shifted again, head pressed into his shoulder, voice dropping low in his ear. “Middle two fingers. Angle left. No—my left. Jesus, Curtis, commit to the bit.”
He tried. Lord, he tried.
But the bucket seats were not designed for finger-focused cardio. His fingers were cramping, his leg was drifting off the gas, and every attempt to adjust made things worse.
“Curtis,” she gasped, tightening her grip on his hand. “You are… dangerously competent at this.”
“Baby,” he said, laughing helplessly, “this is the most arousing thing that has ever happened to me. I love it. But I cannot keep driving like this. My leg is not functioning.”
Callie was breathing deep and fast now, her foot kicking napkins loose from the door pocket. Her head slid into his lap, and in the chaos, she knocked the gearshift into neutral.
The car began to slow in the fast lane.
A truck horn blared.
“Curtis,” she groaned. “Fuck me. No—don’t fuck me. This is already hard enough. I mean this is just… oh God. Oh Jesus.”
Then it happened.
Her back arched. Her thighs trembled. A breathy, high-pitched sound escaped her, halfway between a moan and a cartoon character voice.
“By the cheese moon of Mousedom…” she squeaked.
And then she let go.
Not subtle. Not contained. Just gone.
Curtis felt it spill over his wrist and blinked, stunned. “Jesus, Callie. That’s… a lot.”
Callie lay there glowing, limp, pupils halfway to the astral mouse plane. “Gguuhh… yeah,” she purred. “That was a lot.”
A moment passed.
Then she noticed a motorhome flying by at an alarming speed.
No. They weren’t moving. They were stopped.
She lifted her head and looked around.
They were parked crooked on the median, the front left wheel sunk slightly into the Texas grass.
She exhaled. “Somewhere between ‘by the cheese moon’ and ‘don’t fuck me,’ you put the car in neutral. Your arm was blocking the drive setting, so I guided us off the road.”
Curtis was twisted at an uncomfortable angle, groaning. “That was not my easiest maneuver.”
She laughed softly, adjusting him with care. Tugging fabric. Giving him some mercy.
Then she reached down, pulled the napkins out from under her dress, and held them up for inspection.
They were compromised.
She folded them neatly, reached for more, found a crumpled McDonald’s napkin in the door pocket, wiped herself as best she could, and leaned back into the seat, utterly wrecked and very pleased.
She blinked at the opposite door panel.
There was a wet streak on the vinyl.
She stared at it in awe.
“Wow,” she whispered. “I didn’t even know female biology worked like that.”
Then she turned to him, deadly serious. “Memorize your finger position, sir. Burn it into your brain. I want that on command moving forward.”
Curtis could only nod.
Her hair was a mess. Her dress strap had fallen off her shoulder. One eyelash was betraying her entirely. She looked in the visor mirror, narrowed her eyes, and said, deadpan, “Well. I’m a wreck.”
Curtis lost it.
“You need The Tank,” he said between laughs. “Attorney at law. He’ll win you a settlement.”
She wheezed, head thrown back. “Oh my god. Tank would get me damages and a rental car.”
Then, still catching her breath, she turned toward the windshield, dreamy and glazed.
She wiped the door, then paused and laughed in her squeaky Princess Zip‑Zap voice. “Princess Zip‑Zap believes every mouse in the kingdom deserves an orgasm that ruins upholstery.”
They broke up laughing as Curtis eased the Corvette back into traffic.
