The Big Car
It was a big car, a real American sedan, obnoxiously wide, heavily solid, with a shiny chrome grill and an honest to goodness hood ornament. It looked like it should have shiny fins, big round headlights, and a trunk large enough to accommodate an enemy or three. He leaned against the passenger door, his crossed legs braced against the curb, his face hidden by the brim of his fedora. She grinned down at the scene from her bedroom window, her mind racing through her wardrobe, this was special. He had been talking about the car for some time, she knew bringing it for her to see was an occasion.
Her floral sundress flirted in the wind, as she waited for him to open the door. Soft black leather yielded smoothly, a slim cream trim at the edges neatly tucked into the folds. One eyebrow raised, she surveyed the large bench seat which could have easily accommodated two of her, or allowed her to lay down comfortably, head in the driver’s lap. He slid in and closed his door with a satisfying thunk and looked at her appraisingly, his gaze lingering at the pink lips, splashy peony printed dress and bare legs. As he pulled away from the curb, his hand curved over her thigh, tugging it gently, lightly caressing that soft skin slipping under the dress.
She shifted closer and rested her head on his shoulder, whispered breathily, “this front seat is all kinds of naughty.”
His fingers slipped upwards, encountering nothing but smooth bare soft skin. “Have you seen the back seat?”