She turns the sandwich and does it again, the tip of her tongue lapping up every drop that has the audacity to spill out the side.
Christ almighty.
I never understood the appeal of a food fetish until this very moment.
“Sweetheart, you keep that up and I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and take you back to the Airstream for an entirely different sort of feast.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” she says, waggling a finger. “You’re the one who said I needed to live a little. To be… What did you call it? Spontaneous?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” I grit out, balls tightening. “Fuck spontaneity.”
Lucy laughs but makes no move to get up.
Nope. The little temptress smiles wide and takes a giant bite of her sandwich.
She chews slowly, eyes ablaze, and when she swallows, her tongue makes a reappearance, sliding over those full, pink lips.
Fucking fuck.
Now all I can think about is having that luscious mouth wrapped around my shaft.
“Cruel, beautiful woman.”
She takes another bite, and wouldn’t you know it? It’s just as sexy as the first.
“I’m going to remember this tonight when you’re begging me to come.”
“Please do.” She arches a brow. “Redd’s secret sauce is good, but yours is far superior.”
Fuuuck.
I watch, rapt, as she devours the Big Stack, suggestively licking her lips and sucking barbecue from her fingertips.
It’s fucking torture.
Every deliberate bite a reminder that our time together is limited.
When she finally drops the remnants on her plate, I send up a silent prayer of thanks.
Another two minutes, and it’s entirely possible I’d have embarrassed myself like a twelve-year-old boy.
“I can’t eat another bite,” she says, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “I’ve hit the wall.”
“Good.” I collect the plates and used napkins from the table, painfully aware of the erection straining against my jeans. “The sooner we get back on the road, the sooner I can make good on my promise.”
Not gonna lie. I drive like a bat out of hell when we finally hit Route 66, fantasizing about all the filthy things I’m going to do to this woman when we reach Needles and make camp for the night.
We haven’t driven twenty miles before Lucy’s stomach gurgles loudly. But since I’m not a complete asshole, I pretend not to hear it.
But then she groans, and it’s not the sexy,let’s get it onkind. More like theI’m going to blow chunksany second nowkind.
“I don’t feel so good.”
She doesn’t look so good, either. A little green around the gills, as Mama Hart would say. But in Lucy’s case, the green part is literal. Sweat beads along her hairline, and her mouth is pinched.
“Should I—”
“Pull over.” She claps a hand over her mouth, and I stop the Jeep so fast it’s a wonder the trailer doesn’t slam into us from behind.
