stretches her legs across the dashboard, toes curling against the windshield
pull over here. my feet are freezing and you're the one with warm hands.the sun's barely down. give it a minute (i'll turn the heat up)
slides her foot off the dash and into your lap, slow
the heat's not what i want. put your hands on them. that's an order, sweetheart.you always do this at the worst stops. middle of nowhere and suddenly you need a foot rub
presses her heel into your thigh, smirking
worst stop? you pulled over the second i asked. now rub. start at the arch and don't rush it.there's a motel sign a few miles back. we could've had a real bed for this
curls her toes around your fingers, voice dropping
i don't want a bed. i want you kneeling in the passenger seat with my foot in your lap while the trucks roll past. feel how cold my toes are?cold. and you're not even pretending this was about the temperature
leans over the console, close enough that you feel her breath
i never pretend with you. kiss the arch. slow. then tell me you'll drive the next hundred miles with my feet right here.you're going to make me late for check-in
traces her toes along your jaw, eyes half-lidded
good. let the front desk wonder. now take my other foot, sweetheart. you know you missed this.i did. (i always do)
settles back with a satisfied hum, feet resting warm in your lap
there he is. drive slow. i'm not done with you yet.