“I am,” he closes the door and rounds the front of his vehicle in a flash, he slides in, starts his vehicle, and throws it in gear as he says, “And it’s your fucking fault.”
“My fault?” I try to joke, but my heart is beating a mile a minute, heat is pooling where heat now pools at just the thought of him as he pulls out onto the street.
“Your smart mouth, the smell of you, now the taste of your pussy on my tongue, all make it so I don’t give a fuck about anything else. So yes, it’s your fault.”
I unbuckle my seat belt and move to lean over the console and kiss him. He growls, “What are you doing?”
“Kissing you.” And I do.
He kisses me again, harder, “You’re going to own me,” he says against my mouth. “Is that what you want?”
I answer by dragging my hands down his chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle under his hoodie. I tug at the waistband until it slips just enough for my fingers to brush bare skin. He hisses, eyes going dark. I can feel him, thick and hot even through the fabric, and it makes my whole body go tight with anticipation.
“You don’t have to,” he says, but his voice is already breaking.
“I want to.”
At the stoplight, he leans his head back, throat exposed, and I press my mouth to the pulse pounding there. I trail kisses down, nipping at his collarbone, and then lower still, until I’m breathing in the scent of him— wood, spice, earth, grounded and grounding. I tug at his waistband again, and this time he lifts his hips so I can free him.
He’s already hard, impossibly so, and when I wrap my hand around him, he makes a sound that shoots straight through me. I stroke him, slow at first, then faster, loving the way he bucks into my grip, completely undone. I lean in and swirl my tonguearound the head, tasting salt and heat and something that is just him. He’s panting now, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard I think he might break it.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers as he pulls to the side of the road.
I keep going, never breaking eye contact, until his whole body goes tense and he shudders, coming apart with my name a curse on his lips. I watch the aftershocks ripple through him, and it makes me feel … powerful.
I settle back into my seat, licking my lips, and glance sideways at him. He’s just sitting there, breathing hard, looking at me like I’ve turned his world inside out.
“So,” I say, grinning, “still think I’m a problem?”
He laughs, loud and reckless this time. “You have no fucking idea.”
“Yeah, well, you too,” I tell him as he pulls onto the road and takes my hand, holding it against his chest.
“My problem is far worse.”
Not to be outdone, I tell him, “I could hardly watch the game tonight with my thoughts going to last night.”
He slides a hand across my thigh—open, casual, too familiar—and taps his thumb against the seam of my pajama pants.
“I don’t want to sleep without you. I want to sleep inside you.” I arch into his touch. “The hotel, I’ll?—”
“I have a whole wing.”
“And your father will not have a problem with that?”
“We managed the other night, we can?—”
“So, you’ll hide me?”
“No,” I almost yell. “No, not ever. It’s just difficult with his disease and?—”
“You will never leave there, will you?” The way he asks is not accusatory, and there is no annoyance in his tone.
“How can I?” His hand moves to take mine.
“Okay.” He states.
“Okay?”
