$name1 fucks her taxi driver after a night out, while her husband waits cluelessly at home for her to return.
The stale tang of exhaust and concrete hung thick in the parking garage, underscored by the distant, rhythmic thump of bass escaping a nearby club. $name1 slumped against the cool metal door of her friend’s Prius, the cheerful goodbye echoing hollowly in the cavernous space. Girls’ night. Wine. Laughter that felt increasingly brittle. The buzz lingered, but beneath it pulsed a deeper, restless thrum, an ache her quiet suburban life hadn’t touched in years. Eighteen years, to be exact. The thought landed like a stone.
Her phone screen glowed: 11:47 PM. Richard would be asleep, book splayed on his chest, the news murmuring low on the bedroom TV. The predictability of it scraped against her nerves tonight. She craved heat. Impact. Something not planned on the shared Google calendar.
The app chimed, slicing through the silence. Collin. Silver Honda Civic. License plate… A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom near the ramp, headlights flashing twice. $name1 pushed off the car, the click of her heels unnervingly loud. She smoothed her dress – the one that hugged her curves, the emerald green that made her eyes pop. Richard had barely glanced at it.
The Civic idled, a low grumble in the dimness. The rear door swung open. “$name1?” The voice was warm, smooth, with an undercurrent of something… alert. Like he hadn’t been driving for hours.
“Yeah, that’s me.” She slid in. The interior was clean, smelled faintly of citrus air freshener and… him. Something clean and male. Leather seats cool under her thighs.
“245 Maple Drive, right?” Collin glanced back. His profile was sharp in the dashboard lights – strong jaw, dark hair cropped close. Athletic shoulders strained slightly against his t-shirt. Younger than she expected. Much younger.
“Right.” $name1 settled back, watching the concrete pillars whip past as he navigated out of the garage. The city lights streamed by, painting fleeting patterns on the glass. Silence stretched, thick and charged. The restless energy inside her coiled tighter. The wine hummed. The memory of Richard’s absent kiss goodnight, the rote squeeze of her hand. The sheer, unrelenting ordinariness.
She leaned forward slightly, the partition feeling suddenly unnecessary. “Long night?”
He met her eyes in the rearview. Greenish-hazel, she thought, catching the light. “The usual Friday shuffle. People heading out, people heading home.” A small, easy smile. “Some more enthusiastically than others.”
“Which camp am I in?” The question fell out, bolder than intended.
His gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary. “Hard to say yet.” He turned his attention back to the road, but the atmosphere shifted. Became heavier. Intentional. $name1 felt a flush climb her neck.
They drove. The thump of the club faded, replaced by the softer sounds of the late-night city. Maple Drive was only fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes until her perfectly landscaped driveway, her silent house, her sleeping husband. Panic, sharp and sudden, clawed at her throat. The ache between her legs deepened from a throb to a demand.
No.
The thought was visceral. Not tonight. She couldn’t face the quiet. Couldn’t face the absence. She needed to feel something real. Something that crackled.
“Collin?”
“Yeah?” He glanced back again, his expression open, questioning.
“Pull over.” Her voice was low, rough.
He slowed, signaling, pulling the car neatly into a shadowed alcove just before the entrance to her gated community. A service road, deserted at this hour. Tall hedges blocked the view from the street. The engine settled into a quiet idle. He turned fully in his seat, one arm resting on the headrest. “Everything okay?”
The streetlight cast half his face in stark relief, the other in deep shadow. He looked… capable. Present. $name1 undid her seatbelt. The click echoed in the sudden stillness. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird.
“No,” she breathed. “Not really.” She met his gaze, letting him see the raw need, the frustration she usually kept carefully bottled. “I don’t want to go home yet.”
Understanding flickered in his eyes, followed by a slow, assessing heat. He didn’t look surprised. More… intrigued. “Okay,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “What do you want?”
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t overthink. The dam broke. “You.” The word hung in the citrus-and-leather scented air. “Right here. Right now.”
A beat. His gaze traveled over her face, down to where her pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her throat, then back up. That half-smile returned, sharper now. Less driver, more predator. “You sure about that, $name1?”
Instead of answering, she moved. Unclipped her seatbelt completely. Leaned forward, bridging the space between the seats. Her hand found the hard muscle of his thigh, high up, her fingers pressing in. She felt the immediate tension, the shift in his breathing. His eyes darkened.
“Yeah,” he murmured, his own hand coming up, not stopping her, but tracing the line of her jaw with a single, calloused fingertip. “Okay.”
He hit the locks. The thunk was final. He unclipped his belt in one smooth motion, twisting his body towards her. $name1 surged forward, meeting him. The first brush of lips was electric, a jolt that went straight to her core. Not hesitant. Not exploratory. Starving.
His mouth was hot, insistent. He tasted faintly of mint, clean and sharp. His hand tangled in her long red hair, angling her head, deepening the kiss while his other hand found her waist, pulling her closer across the console. She gasped into his mouth, her hands scrambling – one gripping his shoulder, the other fumbling for the lever on his seat.
He got it first, shoving his seat back with a pneumatic hiss. The space opened up. $name1 didn’t wait. She hauled herself over the center console, knees landing on either side of his hips in the driver’s seat. The dress rode up. The cool leather against the bare skin of her thighs was a shock, heightened by the heat radiating from him beneath her. She settled fully onto his lap, grinding down, feeling the hard ridge of his erection already straining against his jeans. A moan escaped her, low and guttural.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he growled against her neck, his lips trailing fire down to her collarbone. His hands were everywhere – gripping her hips, sliding under the hem of her dress, palms rough and warm against her skin. He found the edge of her lace underwear, fingers dipping beneath, finding her wet, swollen heat.
“Oh god,” $name1 whimpered, arching into his touch. “Yes. Please.”
He didn’t make her wait. His fingers worked her with devastating precision, curling just right, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit. The sensations were blinding, amplified by the confined space, the illicit danger, the sheer novelty of his touch. Her breath came in ragged gasps, fogging the window beside his head. She rocked against his hand, chasing the peak, nails digging into the leather of the headrest beside him.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. His eyes, dark pools in the dim light, locked onto hers. “So fucking gorgeous. Taking it so well.” His thumb pressed harder, circled faster.
It tipped her over. A cry ripped from her throat, muffled against his shoulder as she convulsed, pleasure detonating through her in sharp, blinding waves. She shuddered, collapsing against him, her body trembling.
He held her through it, his breathing harsh against her ear. But his own need was a palpable pressure beneath her. She could feel it, urgent and thick. She lifted her head, meeting his gaze again. His pupils were blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. She saw the question there.
She answered by reaching between them, fumbling with the button of his jeans. He helped her, shoving them and his briefs down just enough. Her breath hitched. He was thick, heavy, straining. Perfect. She positioned herself, slick and still pulsing from her climax. She lowered herself slowly, inch by exquisite inch, taking him deep, feeling him stretch her, fill the aching emptiness. A low groan tore from his chest, his hands clamping onto her hips like vices.
“Ride me,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Hard.”
$name1 needed no urging. The frustration, the boredom, the pent-up longing – it all ignited into pure, feral need. She braced her hands on the dashboard and the headrest, her hair a fiery curtain around them, and moved. She rose, almost completely off him, then slammed back down, taking him to the hilt. A gasp, sharp and mutual.
Again. And again. The car rocked slightly on its suspension. Her moans were muffled cries against his neck, lost in the scent of his skin – sweat, leather, him. The fog on the windows thickened, sealing them in their humid, desperate world. Her nails scraped over the leather seat beside him, seeking purchase. Every thrust jolted through her, rekindling the fire, driving her towards another crest. He met her, driving up into her, his grip bruising, his own groans harsh puffs of air near her ear. His control fraying.
“Is this what you needed?” he gritted out, his hips pistoning. “Someone to fuck you properly?”
“Yes!” she hissed, the word breaking. “Just… don’t stop!”
His hand slipped between their bodies, finding her clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles. The dual assault was too much. She shattered again, a silent scream tearing through her as her inner walls clenched around him, milking him deep. Her climax triggered his own. With a guttural groan lost against her skin, he thrust up one final, brutal time, burying himself to the root as he came, pulsing hot inside her.
She collapsed against his chest, boneless, trembling. Sweat slicked their skin. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the Civic’s quiet idle. The city outside felt miles away. Reality began its cold seep back in. Her phone buzzed in her discarded purse. Richard? Probably wondering about the Uber delay.
Collin’s arms loosened slightly, but he didn’t push her away. His hand traced a slow, almost absent path up her spine. She could feel his heart pounding against her ear, gradually slowing. He shifted slightly beneath her, adjusting, but didn’t withdraw yet. His breath stirred her hair.
$name1 closed her eyes, clinging to the fading echo of sensation, the raw, uncomplicated heat. The clock on the dash glowed: 12:08 AM. She had minutes. Ten, maybe fifteen, before Richard might actually call. Before she had to walk into that quiet house and pretend. The weight of it descended, heavier than before.
Collin shifted again, gently easing her back just enough to look at her face. His expression was unreadable in the gloom – satisfied, yes, but watchful. There was no awkwardness, just a kind of intense, post-coital stillness. He tucked a strand of damp red hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. The gesture felt strangely intimate, more than the frantic sex. His gaze dropped to her lips.
“Time check?” he asked, his voice low and rough, still laced with the remnants of exertion.
She pulled back fully, the cool air hitting her skin as she slid off him, wincing slightly at the sensitivity. She fumbled for her phone. The screen lit up. One notification: a calendar reminder for tomorrow’s grocery delivery. Not Richard. Relief warred with a pang of something else. Loneliness, maybe.
“Twelve-ten,” she managed, her voice husky.
He nodded, pulling his clothes back into place with efficient movements, the professional driver resurfacing, though his eyes still held a lingering heat when they met hers. He reached for a water bottle tucked in the door, took a long swig, offered it to her. She shook her head, smoothing her dress down, her fingers trembling slightly.
He started the engine properly, the headlights cutting through the shadows of the service road. The Civic pulled smoothly onto Maple Drive. The manicured lawns, the identical porch lights, rushed past. He stopped at her driveway gate. The security light blinked on, stark and revealing.
$name1 reached for the door handle, the mundane reality of her life pressing in like a physical force. She needed to go. Shower. Pretend.
“$name1.”
She paused, hand on the latch, and looked back.
He held her gaze, his face serious now in the wash of the security light. The easy charisma was banked. “You got what you needed?”
The question hung there. Did she? Temporary oblivion? Proof she could still feel? A substitute for the intimacy missing at home? It felt complicated suddenly, messy. But the physical release had been real. Devastatingly so.
“For tonight,” she said, the words tasting like ash and something else, something defiant. She opened the door. Cool night air rushed in.
“Good,” he said simply. No goodbye. No ‘have a nice life’. Just an acknowledgment.
She stepped out onto the familiar pavement of her driveway. The engine remained idling behind her. She didn’t look back, walking quickly towards the front door, fishing her keys from her purse. Her fingers still smelled faintly of him, of leather and sex. As she slid the key into the lock, the quiet click echoed in the suburban silence. She heard the soft sound of the Civic pulling away.
She pushed the door open. The house was dark, still. Perfectly quiet. Richard’s soft snore drifted from upstairs. $name1 leaned back against the closed door, the cold wood pressing into her spine. The scent of their laundry detergent, faint and floral, filled her nostrils. Utterly ordinary. Utterly safe.
The ache between her legs was a dull throb now, a fading echo. The frantic heat had subsided, leaving a hollow chill. She stared into the familiar darkness of her hallway. The clock on the microwave glowed green in the kitchen: 12:14 AM.
