“I do. I just wanted to get started while I waited for you to get here.”
I’m finishing up the spark plugs when she asks, “How can I help, then?”
Pointing to a box on the floor, I say, “Grab those belts over there, those are going in next.” She picks up the box and pulls the belts out and we start to install them together. We don’t talk too much besides the task at hand. The way that she handles tools amazes me somehow. She knows the exact tool that we need to use next, reaching in and getting dirt under her nails and on her clothes. I’m impressed.
Next is the new catalytic converter. The old one is a bitch to get out. My truck is old and the bolts holding it in place won’t budge. Let’s just say there is a lot of cursing between the two of us.
Finally, we are able to get out the old one and install the new one in its place. I’m holding it in its place as Regan starts to attach it, when her hand slips off the wrench, scraping open her knuckles on the side of the engine and cutting them open, blood instantly spilling over.
“SHIT!” she shouts, dropping the wrench with a loud clang to the floor.
My heartrate picks up. It’s not like myself or any of the guys don’t sometimes hurt ourselves in the shop. It can be dangerous if you aren’t paying attention. My instincts take over, and in a flash I’m at her side, reaching for her bloodied hand.
“You okay? Let me see,” I say gently, taking her smaller hand in mine. She winces in pain as I look her over.
“I’m fine. Just need to clean it up, is all.”
“Come with me upstairs,” I say, placing a hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward a set of stairs in the rear of the shop.
TWENTY-TWO
REGAN
The warmthof Dean’s hand on the small of my back sends a spark of lightning through my spine, but I hold back any visible shivers.
He opens the door at the top of the stairs, and it leads into a studio apartment. I’m guessing it’s his apartment from the way it looks. Everything is out in one room, except the bathroom that seems to have a pocket door. It’s fairly plain with just a futon, a small TV stand, a queen bed in the back of the room, and a kitchen area to the left side of the room with a small island.
He runs the faucet in the bathroom and starts running my bloody hand under the water. He leaves and returns with a washcloth to hold on the cut as he grabs a First Aid kit from under the sink.
He leads me out to the futon where we both sit, and he opens the kit and starts to pull out the supplies that he’ll need.
“You have a First Aid kit?” I ask, surprised. He gives me a typical bachelor vibe of just having mayo and beer in the fridge, and that doesn’t include being prepared for injuries.
He lets out a low chuckle, “I’m accident prone myself.Always cutting a finger or something,” he replies nonchalantly, never taking his eyes off his task. While mine are trained on him. He’s so focused and taking his time to ensure that he doesn’t hurt me further.
Gently, he takes my hand, still wrapped in the washcloth, and his hands are as calloused as mine. He pats the area dry and opens an alcohol wipe. I wince as I prepare for the sting before he’s even finished removing the cloth from its package.
“I know. I have to be sure it’s clean.” Only now does he look up at me. His green eyes are so soft and caring. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before. This is a completely different side of him. One I think I’d like to see more of. “You ready?” I nod and he applies the alcohol wipe. I hiss as it stings the open wound.
Once he’s certain it’s clean, he opens a bandage and strategically places it over the cut so that it’s completely covered. He presses the bandage down, smoothing it over. He’s done but he keeps my hand in his, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb, careful to avoid the bandaged area.
It’s mesmerizing, almost lulling me to sleep.
Surprisingly, he laces his fingers with mine, my hand fitting perfectly in his, sending sparklers tumbling up my arm.
Our eyes lock, and that soft look is gone. Replaced by—desire. A storm is beginning to brew in those deep green eyes, and I can feel the thunder rumbling in the distance, lighting wanting to strike down. His hand finds my face, gently cradling it in his hand, and swipes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. My chest tightens in anticipation.
Holding my face in place, he leans in slowly, gently placing a kiss on my lips. It’s like a test to see if I want it or not. I inhale his scent again, the same sandalwood and laundry that has been plaguing my thoughts since the group dinner. God, I fucking want it. I want him. I really fuckingwant him. He leans his forehead against mine, putting the ball in my court as what to do next.
I don’t even think, my body vibrates with need and desire that I didn’t realize I could have for another person. Placing my hands on his hard chest, I grip the front of his shirt and pull him back down to my lips. This time, it’s not gentle. It’s needy and full of lust. A fire has started inside me, and I don’t want to put it out—I want to fuel it, fanning the flames higher and higher until they are out of control.
Lifting me up, Dean places me on his lap, my legs straddling his thighs. He kisses me again, parting my lips so that I can fully taste him. Our tongues tangle together in a frantic way that has us both gripping the other tightly. Dean slides his hands to my waist, and my shirt has ridden up, exposing a sliver of skin that he touches, and I shiver. I find myself starting to rock back and forth for the friction I so desperately need and crave. He’s already hard, I can feel him beneath me, straining in his jeans. That snaps me out of the sex trance I was just under and brings me back to reality. Reality of what is happening and who it’s happening with.
I’m kissing and grinding against Dean Dixon. The person I’ve hated for two years. The person standing in my way for a championship and Cup Series spot. This is so wrong, but feels so fucking right. I pull away from him, placing my hands on his chest. We are both panting and I can feel how fast his heart is beating below my palms.
“We can’t,” I say breathlessly.
His eyebrows furrow together in confusion. “We can’t, what?”
