Mirror Image

battled to gain ground. His smoothed down her chest, over the tailored suit jacket, then up again to knead her breasts through the quality cloth.
    Avery caressed his hair, his cheeks, the back of his neck, and his shoulders, then drew him against her as she fell back into the corner of the seat.
    He unbuttoned the two buttons on her left shoulder and wrestled with the row of hooks running down that side of her torso. When he shoved open the jacket, the gold locket now containing his and Mandy’s pictures slipped into the valley between her breasts. The neon lights made a nighttime rainbow of her skin. Streams of rainwater cast fluid shadows across her breasts which were swelling out of her bra.
    He bent his head and kissed the full curve, then the dark center. Through the lace, his tongue flicked roughly, hungrily, lustfully.
    “Tate,” she moaned, as sensations swirled from her breast throughout the rest of her body. “Tate, I want you.”
    Clumsily, he freed himself from his trousers and carried her hand down. Her fingers encircled the rigid length of his penis. As she caressed its velvety tip with the ball of her thumb, he buried his face between her breasts and gasped snatches of erotic phrases and promises.
    His hands slipped beneath her narrow skirt. She helped him get her underpants off. Their lips met in a frantic, passion-driven kiss while they sought a workable position within the impossible confines of the front seat.
    “Damn!” he cursed, his voice sounding dry and raw.
    Suddenly he sat up and pulled her over his lap. Holding her bottom between his hands beneath her skirt, he positioned her above his erection. She impaled herself. They gave glad cries which, within seconds, diminished to pleasurable groans.
    Their lips sought and found each other while their tongues were rampant and quick. He squeezed the taut flesh of her derriere and stroked her thighs above her hosiery and between the lacy suspenders of her garter belt. She used her knees for elevation that teasingly threatened to release his cock before sinking down onto it until it was fully imbedded again. She rode him, milked him.
    “Damn, you can fuck.”
    Having rasped that, he nuzzled his head against her breast until he had worked it free of her brassiere cup. He laved the raised nipple with his tongue, then took it into his mouth. He slid one of his hands between her damp thighs and entwined his fingers in the soft hair, then slipped them into the cleft and stroked the small protuberance.
    Avery’s breathing became choppy and loud. She bent her head over his shoulder. Tensing around the hardness within her and grinding against the magic stroking finger without, she had a very long, very wet climax that coincided with Tate’s.
    They didn’t move for a full five minutes. Each was too weak. Finally, Avery eased herself off his lap and retrieved her underpants from the floorboard. Wordlessly, Tate passed her a handkerchief.
    Self-consciously, she accepted it and said, “Thank you.”
    “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
    “No, why?”
    “You… you feel so small.”
    Her eyes were the first to fall away after a long, telling stare.
    Once she had tidied herself and straightened her helplessly wrinkled clothing, she flipped down the sun visor and looked with dismay at her reflection in the vanity mirror.
    Her hairdo had been ravaged. Clumps of moussed hair surrounded her head like a spiked halo. An earring was missing. Carefully outlined lipstick had been smeared over the entire lower third of her face. “I’m a wreck.”
    Tate made his body as straight as the accommodations would allow and tucked in his shirttail. His necktie was askew and his coat was hanging off one shoulder. He fumbled with his pants zipper and cursed it twice before closing it successfully.
    “Do the best you can,” he said, passing her the earring he’d just sat down on.
    “I’ll try.” With the cosmetics in her purse, she repaired the damages to her makeup and did what she could with her coiffure. “I guess we can blame my hair on the weather.”
    “What’ll we blame the whisker burns on?” Tate touched the corner of her mouth. “Do they sting?”
    She gave a small, unrepentant shrug and smiled shyly. He smiled back, then got out and came around for her.
    By the time they reached the backstage area where Eddy was pacing and Ralph was jingling change in both pockets, they truly did look the worse for wear—windblown and rain-spattered, but