I wanted it this way. I wanted him begging and shaking, pulling my hair and trapping my body under his. I wanted him to want me even when I gagged, when my eyes watered, when I wasn't perfect.
Even when I told myself I didn't, I wanted him.
* * *
JJ threwthe car in reverse and hooked his arm over the back of my seat. I glanced down at my lap, a warm pulse moving through me as he backed out. It wasn't sexual. It wasn't about his body. It was care and competency and it turned me on, just the way it turned me on when I watched him tap a keg and mix a martini.
I didn't understand how something as simple as know-how could start me up, but I couldn't help it. I felt this as profoundly as filthy words whispered into my ear.
"What's wrong?" he asked, pausing at the end of the driveway.
"Nothing."
"Not nothing. Looks like you're annoyed." He considered me. "Or praying."
"Praying and annoyance are interchangeable in your book?"
"No, Bam. When it comes to you, everything comes with a side of annoyance."
"Or prayer?" I countered. I glanced down at the skintight jeans I'd selected for tonight's double date. We were meeting Jackson and Annette for dinner in the big city—as big as it got in Maine—Portland. The guys didn't know it yet, but they were also taking us dancing. "These are not the jeans of a woman who spends much time on prayer."
"Would you just tell me what your problem is? Goddammit, woman. Half the time you invent arguments just to give yourself something to do, I'm sure of it."
"Right," I deadpanned. "Because I have nothing better to do. Makes complete sense."
"You always have something better to do. That's not in question. It's whether you'd rather do that or start fires."
"Now I'm a fire starter?"
"As far as I can tell, that's how you spend the other half of your time."
I could've said something. I could've told him he looked good tonight or that I appreciated him doing this for me. I could've formed those words and sat there, vulnerable as fuck for a minute.
I didn't.
"It's rather cavalier of you to claim I'm inventing problems or starting fires when you were begging me to suck your cock less than"—I shot a pointed glance at the dashboard clock—"eighteen hours ago."
"Bam, sweetheart, if I were to apply that logic, you'd have to keep that pretty mouth of yours shut on a near permanent basis." He reached out, slipped his hand through my hair. "Since I know there's no way in hell to shut you up, why don't you tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing," I insisted as his grip tightened. "It was nothing. I'm fine. Seriously."
"I don't believe you." He loosened his hold on my hair only to gather up the strands again and twist them around his palm. "Would it kill you to be honest with me? Really, is it that hard for you?"
There it was. The quiet genius of JJ Harniczek. I didn't have to say anything for him to know everything or damn close to it.
I licked my lips, glanced away as much as I could given his grip on my hair. "Sometimes."
"What can I do about that?"
"It's not you."
He tipped his head from side to side. "Sure, that's a handy answer. But, as you mentioned, you're the woman sucking my cock. I'd like to make it better for you if I can."
"That starts with giving me plenty of warning. I'm not a swallower."
He shut his eyes, drew in a breath. He studied me as he exhaled. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry. That one got away from me." He leaned closer, bringing our foreheads together. Then, "Tell me you're all right and make me believe it."
"I'm honestly fine," I said, laughing. "I'm, um…I'm happy you're coming with us."
