He responded by stepping closer, pressing fully between my thighs, and oh?—
This. This was what I'd been missing.
My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. He tasted like beer and mint and something darker, something that made me want to climb inside his skin and stay there.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. "Demi," he said again, his voice wrecked.
"Yeah?"
"We should go inside."
"Why?"
His eyes were dark, pupils dilated. "Because if we stay out here, I'm going to lay you down on this workbench and do things that make you scream. And I'd rather do that somewhere with a bed and a locked door."
Heat flooded through me. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." He pressed one more kiss to my mouth—softer this time, but no less devastating. "Come on. Before I lose what's left of my self-control."
He stepped back, and the cold air rushed in where his body had been. I immediately missed the warmth.
But when he held out his hand, I took it without hesitation.
Whatever was about to happen, I was ready.
4
TORCH
We didn’t make it to the house. We didn’t even make it out of the garage.
Her hand, small and cool, tugged mine, pulling me away from the cabin, toward a bed. I turned back, about to say something, and froze when she let go. The loss of her touch hit like cold air.
She pulled off her coat and dropped it onto the oil-stained concrete. Then her gaze locked on mine—steady, deliberate—as she tugged her sweater over her head. Static lifted strands of her dark hair, a brief halo before it fell around her face again. The sweater hit the floor beside the coat.
“Fuck me here,” she said, her voice low, stripped of its earlier nervousness and sharpened into a pure command.
My brain short-circuited. Nothing worked—just static. Here? In the damn garage? With Bing Crosby crooning about snow on an old radio and tools lined up like they were judging us from the pegboard. But she was already unbuttoning her jeans, sliding them down over her hips and stepping out of them.
The air left my lungs. She was heat and sweetness in a place that smelled like motor oil and steel. Then she crooked a fingerat me—slow, confident—and led me over to the Mustang. She climbed onto the hood.
The sight of her—fully bared and flushed from her climax, sprawled across the hood of my car—made my knees weak. Every sane thought, every caution about taking this slow, about her being untouched, evaporated in the furnace of that single image.
I was across the space in two strides, driven by a primal need. I hooked my fingers in the delicate lace of her panties and pulled them down, my knuckles brushing the fever-hot skin of her inner thighs.
She was completely bare, her pussy wet and glistening for me in the warm, low light of the garage. The breath left my lungs in a rush, a silent acknowledgment of the offering laid before me.
I knelt and moved my head between those thighs. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to taste her, and I had to taste her now.
As my mouth found her, she cried out—a sharp, beautiful sound that echoed off the walls. Her back arched, her hands scrambling for purchase on the slick hood. I worshiped her with my tongue, learning the rhythms that made her gasp my name, the specific pressure that made her thighs tremble and clamp against my ears. Shutting out the world until there was only her taste, her scent, the music of her pleading whimpers.
I didn’t stop until her cries crescendoed into a broken sob. Until after her body went taut, shuddering through the waves of her first orgasm. An orgasm I gave her.
When I looked up, her chest was heaving, her eyes dazed and heavy-lidded. A thin sheen of sweat made her skin glow in the dim light. I stood, pulling my sweatshirt over my head in one frantic motion and letting it fall to the floor, adding to the trail of our clothes.
“Take off your bra,” I told her, my voice rough.
She acted without hesitation, her fingers fumbling with the clasp before she tossed the flimsy garment aside. I tugged her gently to the edge of the hood, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat of her skin, and her hands went immediately to the waistband of my jeans. She fumbled with the button-fly, her fingers clumsy with a delicious urgency, until she pushed both jeans and boxers down.
