To his car.

Rick's cigarettes are in his car, so the two of you decide to stay there rather than walk back to the benches. It's not actually a car, but an SUV (a Toyota RAV4, to be exact). You're feeling warm from all the wine you drank, but you don't object when he turns on the heat inside. It's a chilly day for the month of March, and he's lowering his window to smoke. "Mind if I steal one of those from you?" you ask, lowering yours as well.

"Not at all."

You haven't smoked in years, but you've always missed it, so it's the perfect end to this little excursion of yours. If you didn't share Rick's sense of turning back the clock earlier, you do now. You used to chain smoke in your own car before every shift at Sips, dreading what awaited you inside. At the moment, however, you are the opposite of anxious, buzzing as much from the nicotine as the drink.

"This cigarette's hitting me hard" you say, reclining in your seat. You take another drag, then drape your arm over the frame of the open window so as not to ash inside the vehicle. You wonder if anyone even makes cars with ashtrays in them anymore.

As you're wondering, Rick turns and puts a hand behind your headrest, then uses it to pull himself toward you. Before you realize what's happening, he's leaning across you, using his other hand for support, and kissing you. You feel the cigarette fall from your fingers, presumably down to the pavement below.

Having already been leaning back in your seat, you're now unable to pull away. Rick interprets this as a sign of encouragement, and he coaxes your mouth open with his lips, then slides his tongue in. You feel his hand come to rest on your upper thigh now, and the other grasps the back of your head. As his tongue probes deeper, you can only whimper in protest.

No, that's not true. You could try to push him off, but you don't. You're frozen in place, with one arm still hanging out the window. The hand on your thigh slides up to your hip, then moves to your breast, where it gropes you through the fabric of your shirt. Finally, he breaks the kiss, and his hand returns to your leg, sliding beneath it this time and then pulling it over the other so that you turn onto your side. This forces you to bring your arm back in and, when you do, he takes you by the hand and leads you onto him.

You let him do it, even though you know you can't let this go any further. "I don't want to do this," you tell him as you straddle his legs as best you can in the space available. You say it again, more to yourself than to him this time, and then you begin to kiss him as deeply and desperately as he did you.

"I don't want to do this." You repeat it like a mantra in your mind, but your body isn't listening. It's now putty in his hands, which are cupping your ass and sliding up your back beneath your shirt, simultaneously. Still, you keep saying it to yourself, hoping that your future self will remember, and forgive you for whatever it is you're about to do. You really don't want to do this, but you do want it to happen to you, so whatever Rick wants is what's going to happen. You both deserve it. You'll deal with the guilt later.

"You wanna' move to the back seat?" Rick asks. He has pulled your head back by the hair so that he could bury his face in your cleavage, but has since moved on from that and is now devouring your neck. "Or we could get a room," he suggests. "I could get could get us a room."