They spent a day and a half in Austin, mostly hitting different music clubs, but after lunch on the second day, he suggested they go back to the hotel for a nap. She woke about three hours later and found Tim sitting in front of his laptop looking at some sort of map.
“Every speed trap on an interstate in the West.”
“Every speed trap in the West?”
“On an interstate.”
“Okay. And why do we need to know this?”
He turns, grins up at her, and kisses her. “According to Ziva my car handles amazingly at one twenty. I’ve never had it over ninety. And sitting in front of us is hundreds of miles of pretty much nothing.”
“So, you want to get out there and drive like a maniac?”
“Yeah. You me, hundreds of miles of nothing, the moon rising over us, see if we can blow past El Paso in less than six hours, that sound good?”
“How did you learn to drive like this?”
“Southern boys love their cars, and my daddy was one of ‘em. You should see what I can do with a pickup.”
“Oh yeah. Someone had to teach Gibbs how to do a bootleggers turn.”
Tim looks very startled by that idea, and Abby laughs, cranking the music and flooring the gas.
At the age of thirty-five Tim McGee thought he had figured out everything that turned him on. So he was a little surprised at how driving insanely fast with Abby by his side affected him. Not displeased by this, mind you, but definitely surprised.
It was only when he was driving. Her driving was lots of fun, but didn’t make him hard. Maybe it was some deep seeded James Bond thing. Something about going insanely fast in a smoking hot car with a smoking hot girl next to him. Or maybe it was just the adrenaline rush flowing through his veins and making his skin buzz; he knows he read something somewhere about danger being an aphrodisiac. Possibly it was because of the focus required to do it. Driving fast is like hardcore coding, while doing it he was entirely in the zone, but this zone included the car, the road, the clutch, gas, gearshift, Abby’s left leg in a fishnet stocking, and her hand on his right thigh.
But eventually that hand drifted further up his leg, under the kilt, seeming to notice that he was enjoying this a bit more than he had while she was driving.
Which is when his foot hit the break. Not so fast as to cause them to skid out or anything, but there was a certain urgency to it none the less. While he might indeed be enjoying this, he also didn’t want to die for it. Back in grad school he had seen Swordfish with a few of his buddies, and had come to the conclusion that the odds were probably fifty-fifty that if he had a gun held to his head while getting a blow job that he’d be able to crack the code or die with a smile on his face.
And since he doesn’t have to drive as Abby’s hand closes around him, he’s thinking now is a good time to stop the car.
About two seconds after the car came to a stop, Abby was in his lap, and a second after that it occurred to both of them that they were just too damn tall to do this with the top up. So a quick break in the action took place while he got the roof of the car tucked back, and pulled them off the road.
There’s an image, a feeling, he has burned into his mind from this. Sitting in the passenger seat, still buzzing from the adrenaline, Abby on his lap, hands on his shoulders, with her head back, moving fast against him, one of his hands under her shirt, on her breast, the thumb of his other hand on her clit, the sun rising behind them, lighting her yellow-pink, cold air and hot sex flushing her cheeks, while they both moaned and greeted the sun with loud, shuddering orgasms.
Making love in the Porsche as the sun came up over the desert was definitely a treat.
By the time the sun was full up, they were both pretty relaxed and sleepy, so they eased into Bowie, Arizona at a very relaxed place, and crashed for ten hours at the first hotel they came to.