She Passed the Exam Sitting on My Lap novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Reverse Gear

"Get out," I said.

It took her three seconds to obey, and they were the longest three seconds of my life.

She climbed back over the gearshift, one leg after the other, and returned to her seat.

She smoothed down her skirt, which was beyond saving.

I kept staring at the windshield, my hands pressed against my thighs.

"The camera," I said at last.

"What about it?"

"It's recording."

"Oh, that." She shrugged. "The director says nobody checks it unless there's an accident."

"That's not okay."

"Well, we haven't crashed."

I looked at her.

Her cheeks were flushed, but not with embarrassment.

I could tell by her smile: she was having the time of her life.

"Daniela. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one. It's in my file, instructor."

"First year."

"First year of illustration. I worked for two years at my mom's tamale stand in Apodaca to save up for the semester. I started late on purpose."

"On purpose?"

"I wanted to choose my schedule." She tilted her head. "I asked for Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven because that's when Instructor Salinas taught."

I felt something drop in my stomach.

"You don't know me."

"I saw you at the start of last semester, fixing another student's tire."

She drummed her fingers on the dashboard.

"You rolled up your sleeves, didn't smile, and told the girl not to cry because crying wouldn't help her tighten a nut."

"That's rude."

"That's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

I laughed.

I didn't mean to, but it came out, short and tired, the first real laugh I'd had in a long time.

"This can't happen here," I said. "I'm your instructor. There are rules, and there's a code of conduct."

"The code doesn't forbid two adults from..."

"The code forbids an instructor from accepting favors."

"I'm not asking you for a grade," she said, no longer smiling. "I'm asking you to touch me."

I fell silent.

The parking lot was empty, bathed in the orange light of seven-thirty.

In the distance, beyond the buildings, Cerro de la Silla stood out against the sky.

"Not today," I said.

"Then Thursday."

"Daniela."

"Instructor." She leaned closer. "You've had me worked up ever since I saw your hands. And they're right here, eight inches away."

The word "no" got stuck in my throat.

We finished the lesson.

She completed five full laps, hands at ten and two, without stalling once.

She learned how to start in first gear.

She learned how to brake without jolting.

I didn't say another word beyond the instructions.

On Thursday, she showed up in the same skirt.

I noticed the moment I saw her among the cones, long, tan legs, walking like she owned the asphalt.

We had our lesson.

Reverse parking, parallel parking, tight turns.

She was good.

She was much better than I'd assumed—attentive, quick, not a trace of real clumsiness.

Tuesday's clumsiness had been an act.

At eight-fifteen, she turned off the engine, set the parking brake, and looked at me.

"We're done," she said.

"Yeah."

"So what now?"

I didn't answer.

She unbuckled her seat belt.

Then she took my right hand, resting on my knee, and placed it between her thighs, beneath her skirt.

She was burning hot.

The fabric of her underwear, thin as paper, was wet.

"Goddamn it," I whispered, voiceless.

"Tell me to stop."

I didn't.

I slid my fingers slowly over the fabric, from bottom to top, and she spread her legs without a word.

I stroked her clit with my thumb, through the wet cotton, in tight circles.

She let out a rough moan, leaned her head against the seat, and closed her eyes.

"There," she said. "Like that."

"Don't make a sound."

"It's just that you..."

"Shh."

I pushed the fabric aside and slid two fingers into her, all the way in.

She was slick, tight, and hot, and clenched around me in a spasm that made me hard as a steel rod.

She reached blindly for my pants.

I let her undo my belt.

When she pulled out my cock and wrapped her hand around it, I exhaled sharply.

"Instructor," she panted. "It's huge."

"Look at me."

She opened her eyes.

They were black, bright, desperate.

"Move with me," I said.

I moved my fingers in and out to the rhythm of her hand.

She jerked me off with an eager clumsiness, squeezing too hard, and I loved it.

The car filled with the scent of sex and vanilla.

The windows began to fog up.

"I'm going to come," she whispered.

"Not yet."

"I can't..."

"Hold on."

I moved my thumb to her clit and pressed without letting up, while my fingers curled inside her.

"Instructor... please..."

"Now."

She came with a muffled cry against my neck, trembling all over, squeezing my fingers up to the knuckles.

Her hand closed abruptly around my cock and stroked it once, twice, three times.

I came with a low groan, spilling over her fist and my own pants.

We stayed like that, panting.

That's when I heard knuckles rapping on my window.

One sharp knock, then two, then three.

I turned my head, my hand still between her legs.

Through the fogged-up glass, against the glow of a streetlight, I saw Rodolfo Fierro's broad grin.

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