“Yeah,” he says, leaning close, voice dropping to that sinful tone that still makes my pulse trip. “But you love it.”
I do. I really do.
“Allow me to introduce you to one of my absolute favorite trucks. This is Black Betty—she’s an oldish girl, 2003 Ford, Harley-Davidson special edition. I had her done up with matte black everything. Ain’t she dainty?”
Dainty, she is huge…
Trey opens the passenger door for me, the morning light slanting across the underground garage. I climb the steps into the cab. He rounds the hood and slides in beside me, settling into the driver’s seat with lazy confidence. The backward cap, grey sweatpants, and tight black tee shouldn’t look so good—but on him? Devastatingly, they do.
The engine rumbles to life, low and smooth, and sunlight spills through the ramp ahead, lighting the veins in his forearm as his hand curls around the wheel. His other hand drops to my thigh, casual and possessive.
“She’s… big…” I finally manage.
Trey snorts. “Like I said, she’s my ickle-girl. Seatbelt, please.”
He pauses, then reaches across and fastens me in. My heart starts pattering, nervous and a little too eager.
He doesn’t say anything for a while, just drives, the soft morning hum of L.A. filtering through the windows. The streets are still half-asleep—coffee carts steaming on corners, joggers with earbuds, a few cars sliding past.
“Let me queue up a song before I open her up a little.”
A pulsing beat fills the cab, the instrumental thump bouncing against my chest. Then a coarse voice cuts in, strained but full of energy.
“Whoa, Black Betty, bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty, bam-ba-lam
Black Betty had a child, bam-ba-lam
The damn thing gone wild, bam-ba-lam”
I can’t help it—my feet thump, my fingers drum against my legs, excitement building with every note as Trey accelerates. A nervous smile creeps over my face, twisting into laughter as the truck pushes me deeper into the seat.
When the song ends, he turns the music down. His smile is slow, casual, devastatingly handsome.
“I was going to tell you over breakfast, you know…about prophylactics.”
“Baby, I know all about…wait—prophylactics? What are you, from the nineteen-sixties?” I can’t help but smile at that.
“You know what I mean,” I say, voice soft but teasing. “I wasn’t hiding it from you.”
“You really were going to tell me over breakfast?” he says finally, glancing at me, one brow raised.
I shrug, fighting a smile.
“It seemed…appropriate. I mean, what goes better with toast than mild panic?” He laughs, low and rough, head shaking.
“Fuck, you’re just like me for real, baby.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shifts gears, before his hand returns back to my thigh.
“It’s not bad. It’s just dangerous.”
The light changes. He slows, glances over at me again—just long enough for my pulse to skip. “You’re sitting there looking all freshly fucked and bright eyed in those jeans, and you expect me to focus on the road?”
“Maybe you should keep both hands on the wheel then,” I say, smirking.
