Brooklyn Bridge, 10:30pm

I'm in a coffee shop right now, I should mention. I was supposed to work on my thesis, but my mind is just buzzing from a wonderful night and I can't seem to wrap my head around Ellul right now in a way which would be fruitful.
I keep pressing my legs together trying to gain some pressure, but without a hand in between my legs, pushed deep into my tights, and fingers pushed deep into my cunt it all seems like a pathetic attempt to regain something which can only be elusive right now.
As soon as we got in the car I pulled his hand between my legs. I just needed him to know how wet I was. That even though nothing could happen tonight, how much I wanted something to. His jaw dropped at how soaked I was. I always say that I get wet... really wet... and for some reason people simply don't believe me. Or they think that I have a different perception of "really wet" than I should. When I tell them it's half pride, half warning, but for some reason they think I'm significantly daintier than I actually am.
I push his hand deeper, grind down on his palm, which is covered in my cum already. I grind for pressure, to feel the warmth of his fingers inside me. His fingers flick over my pussy and I tremble.
When he pulls his hand away, his fingers are covered, soaking, and my cum drips off of them. I immediately lower my mouth to them, licking them clean, leaving him only with the scent of my cunt as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge, artificial lights skimming through and across the windows.
I stroke his cock through his pants, and feel every ridge and pulse. The thin fabric of his far too expensive pants prevents nothing. I squeeze, I stroke, I delight in his sounds.
I can still, if I close my eyes and remember just right, feel his cock in my palm. Feel it swell. It's really a very nice cock. Beautifully cut and of perfect thickness. I want to ride it and feel it swell inside me.
I fumble towards his belt and he unzips his pants, instead, pulling his cock out. I stroke at first. I want my mouth on his. I want his tongue against mine. I want his teeth on my lips and my inner thigh. Right now.
I can't tell if it's the memory or the door which keeps opening, but I get chills which keep running through me, and makes my breath catch.
I stop kissing him... which I should never, ever have done... and lower my mouth to his cock. I press it to the back of my throat, feeling my spit drip down over it. The cars moves, slows, stops, moves again, but it's all lost to me. I just want his cock inside me. I think briefly about the driver, but sadly it's only a fleeting thought. I think about the cock in front of me more.
His sounds spur me on, both to suck harder and to push it deeper into my throat. He pushes against me and I just barely gag on his cock. I pull back and lick the head of his cock, letting my tongue slide into the slit. I want to taste his cum desperately. I want the taste of him to fill my mouth and slide down my throat.
I sip tea, surrounded by a myriad of people who don't know how wet I am. Who have no idea that all I can think about is his swollen cock in my mouth. I hold my cup and smile. They would never guess.
I keep pumping his cock with my hand, eager. I usually enjoy giving blow jobs. I love sucking it into my mouth, teasing it out, making it last as long as I can. I love running my tongue over the tip, stroking the shaft in a firm grip and then teasing it with my fingers. I love sucking cock.
But not last night. Last night all I wanted was his cum. I wanted him to cover me in a full load, pumping his cock until it exploded over me. I wanted to see it unleash his white, hot, sticky cum all over my face and tits. I want him to cum in my mouth and let droplets spray onto my chin and drip down. I want it to crescendo over my body, to splash over my ass and decorate the tattoo on my back. I want him to make me his, claim his territory.
But all I can do, in this tiny car, is suck. I am forceful and eager with my hand. I have a goal, and it is not simply pleasure. I want to swallow every drop of cum he can muster.
I suck furiously, pumping my head up and down. I feel him tentatively place a hand on the back of my head, and while I don't often enjoy this specific move, the contact and pressure are perfect. I want him to press my head down, to feel his fingers tense in my hair.
Despite the un-included third person in the car, there is nothing furtive to this. There is only disregard and base need.
I stare around at the people in the coffee shop and they haven't noticed how my breathing is frighteningly staggered. I can't help it. I try and relax a little but my legs are twined together and my nipples are painfully hard against my bra.
I often think back and wish I had done things differently. I wish I had kissed him more. I wish I had felt his hands more on my bare skin. I wish for more of everything, more time, more words, more fucking, more privacy, more space, more of everything good. I wish I am sitting on his desk being fucked and not in this chilly coffee shop. But this is just as fruitless and I refuse to be anything less than pleased and wet.
His hand on the back of my head, and I am only more eager. I suck. I press. I ache. I pull.
I can feel his fingers tighten and I know I will get what I want.
He groans in the back of his head and pushes forward, up, tightening his grip on me. I want more and more and more and he cums.
It spills into my mouth, filling, warm and thick. It runs down my throat as I swallow in gulp after gasp. I want to let it run out of my mouth, dripping back down his cock so I can clean it up all over against with my tongue, but in the car this is unfeasible. I swallow, hair held tight, head held down. He tastes like exuberance. He tastes like want. He tastes like richness and royalty. He tastes like I imagine things taste like when I imagine tastes.
I wipe the corners of my mouth and let him find his breath. I lay my head on his chest and just watch as the car slows, but still passes, the front of my building. I say nothing.