I think this is a very valid point until he says, “I have a pretty good idea of how productive you are every day around nine fifteen.”
I freeze. I’m sure the blood drains from my face, leaving me even more Lydia Deetz–like than usual. The walls can’t bethatthin.
And then, in one fluid motion, Nick puts the car in reverse, places his right arm behind my seat, and backs out of the parking space. His left hand turns the wheel, palm flat, not even grippingit.
It’s just so effortless. Confident. It hits me like a shot of espresso to my core.
Look, some women are into six-pack abs or Scottish accents. For me? It’s the one-handed backup.
Any lingering inebriation? Gone. Composure? None. I feel completely sober and laser-focused on that left hand and the comment about what he can hear through our shared wall.
“Actually, can you park again for a second?” I ask. Without giving it a second—or first—thought, I jam my fingers against the buckle of my seatbelt. It releases with a pleasing click. “I just want to see—”
“Did you forget someth—”
I push my right foot into the floor mat and twist to the left, leaning all the way over the center console. The gear shift pokes into my ribs, but I don’t care. And yes, my kissing technique is a little messy because I’m contorted and off-balance, but he’s not complaining. Far fromit.
I’m extending myself farther and farther over the console, needy as fuck. Pushing for more and getting it right back from him. Suddenly my mouth is running over his cheek, his beard, sucking on his earlobe.
God.
God.
Even with the windows rolled up, there’s a flurry of sound. Skin and fabric sliding across the upholstery, the chunky rubber heel of my Doc Marten banging up against the bottom of the passenger door. Heavy breathing evolving into panting. My nails scratching down his scalp.
I angle myself back, toward the gap between the driver and passenger seats, trying to say “Back seat?” It comes out as “bbbehhkmmett?”
But Nick definitely gets it, because he grabs my waist and tries to help me over the center console, which would be a challenging maneuver even for a sober person with excellent limb coordination.
I land clumsily on the rear bench seat, getting my feet caught on just about every piece of protruding equipment—the gear shift, the steering wheel, the seatbelt buckle. I crush at least three of the stuffed animals with my ass.
Nick wisely uses the doors.
His hands are all over me, underneath my T-shirt, sliding over the curve of my waist and along my rib cage, fingers edging back to unclasp my bra. I breathe a ragged sigh into his mouth and tug up on his shirt. Again.
He pulls it over his head, bumping his hand against the roof. My T-shirt comes off, too.
Under normal circumstances, I’m easily psyched out. More often than not, when I’m with another person, I’ve had to swallow internal questions like “Really? This guy?” and “Why areyou doing this again?” or “Do you actually want to put your face there? Your mouth there? Are yousure?”
I’m never sure. I’m never, ever sure.
Except that right now, Iam.
I’m so used to settling for tiny pieces of people. Little fragments of attention while they’re preoccupied with something else. And right now he’s literally holding me with both hands.
I actually want this man to tear into what’s remaining of my clothes. Rip my stupid lacy underwear off my body as afuck youto the dirtbag I wore them for because I’m delusional.
“You’re just so…” His voice trails off into my collarbone.
He doesn’t bother completing the thought. He doesn’t need to because I feelso…everything.
“God, I just—I want to suck your cock.”
Iknow.I’m shocked, too. Shocked to hear the words leave my mouth, let alone actually mean them. It’s temporary mania. It’s what all those creepy Victorian doctors diagnosed women with. Hysteria.
We’re both fumbling with his belt and I think his hands are shaking a little bit, which only makes me more certain. It’s this intense urge to make this very responsible man lose all control in his car parked in front of his workplace.
He’s leaning back on the seat, reaching for me, but I swat his hand away. I can’t have distractions. I tear into the buckle, whipping the leather through his belt loops.
