“Yvette.”
“What?”
“Her name is Yvette.”
He studied me for a second, and then that grin, the one he’d had at the wedding just before he’d kissed me, came over his stern face. “God damn, but you might be a car person yet,” he said, clearly pleased.
“Hardly.”
But the grin stayed on. “Not very original,” he said.
I shrugged. “She’s my first car. What do I know about naming cars?”
“You’re right. You’ll learn.”
I smiled at that, at him. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and suddenly the car got very small. “Right,” he said, breaking eye contact and looking down at my feet. “So, yeah, finding the rhythm Yvette needs. Be gentle with her at first, but firm—she needs to know you’re the boss.”
“Oh Jesus, what are you, the Corvette Whisperer?”
“Why yes, yes I am.” He motioned for me to get moving, and I did as he’d instructed me, easing my foot off the clutch while applying the gas and also putting it into first gear.
And we lurched forward and then conked out.
“Again,” I said, before he could say a word. He just nodded as I went through the motions again, to the same result.
I expected him to jump in with some car-expert talk, or even just some guy-like tell-me-what-I’m-doing-wrong speak, but he stayed silent.
I almost liked Stick in that moment. Almost.
The third time, I got Yvette on the road in first, and drove at that speed for what felt like way too long.
“Listen to her,” Stick said softly. He was very close to me, and I could feel his breath on my cheek. “She’ll tell you when you need to shift. You’ll feel it.”
And I did. The movement wasn’t fluid, but it wasn’t as jerky as it had been, and I got her into second, increasing my speed.
“Yes, that’s it.” He moved his arm across the back of my seat and scooted a bit closer, leaning into the console. He rested a hand on top of mine, wrapped around the gearshift head.
“It’s like sex. Or good sex, anyway. Listening to her, feeling when she’s ready for more. Being gentle when you make your move, but also being sure.”
He squeezed my hand as I eased my foot onto the clutch and shifted to third. “Exactly,” he whispered.
The country road where we were driving was completely deserted and mostly straight, yet I didn’t dare take my eyes from the road. And not because I was scared to crash.
I was scared to see the look I knew Stick was giving me.
I could feel my pulse picking up, and my heart racing in time with Yvette’s. And I totally got what Stick was saying, totally felt her, felt Yvette.
The shift to fourth was seamless, and we sped down the country road, and I desperately wished that it was warm enough to put the top down. The next shifts also went well.
“Sixth? Seventh?” I asked Stick, not entirely sure what my baby needed. First-time mother, and all.
“Not yet. Let her get used to this first. It really is like sex. The early gears are foreplay. In fourth and fifth gear you’re trying to maintain, to make it last, make it build. Sixth and seventh, she…you know.”
His hand left mine and moved to my knee. I could feel the heat of him through my jeans. His big hand covered my knee, his fingers dangling down between my legs. His other hand moved from the back of the seat to my neck, gently resting beneath my hair. He moved aside the collar of the great peacoat I’d found at a navy surplus store, and put his fingers around the back of my neck.
His thumb began to slowly stroke my sensitive skin.
And I couldn’t wait to go further.
