"Nah, I've been on my feet for six hours. I'm beat," I whine.
His lips brush mine once, then he's stepping away.
I pull him back to me. "Hey, and you call that a kiss?"
He chuckles, low and sinful. "My apologies, ma'am." His hand slides up my back, into my hair, tilting my head just the way he wants it, and then his mouth comes down on mine for real.
His mouth is hot and hungry. He slides his tongue into my mouth like he's tasting his favorite sweet thing in the world. His other hand settles on my hip, tugging me into the hard line of his body even as he backs me against the car, kissing me like we have hours instead of minutes.
I vaguely register a door slamming from somewhere behind us, but Jordan doesn't twitch or break the kiss. Instead, he emits a low groan from his throat.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard, and I can feel his length straining against my hip.
"I thought you said you were tired," he says, voice rough.
"I was," I manage. "Then you showed up."
His eyes dance. "I live to serve." He rests his forehead lightly against mine, his breathing just starting to slow.
Then he murmurs, "You said there was something you've been dying to tell me all day."
I sink my teeth into my lower lip, glancing at him from under my lashes. "I'll tell you when we're in bed tonight."
He takes a step back, palms up. "Whoa, whoa. Nice try."
"Come on," I coax, reaching for his hand. "Just tonight."
"You have finals coming up. You need to study, Bree."
I groan inwardly, cursing his constant need to look out for me. Such as not having sleepovers on school nights, mainly because I usually don't walk right the next day. "So that's a no to staying over tonight?"
He leans in, presses one last kiss to my lips. "It's a big fat no, baby."
"Fine." I sigh. "Can you at least take me somewhere?"
"Now?"
"Now."
He grins. "Get in the car, Wells."
11
Thedesertblurspastus in streaks of red and gold. The sun's low, painting the horizon in fire.
Jordan’s hand rests on my thigh, thumb stroking circles. “So. On a scale from sinful to downright unholy—how unhealthy do you want your dinner?”
My stomach growls in response. “Filthy. Shame me.”
He grins and pulls into a beat-up roadside diner ten minutes out of town. Mima's Diner with its cracked vinyl seats, sticky menus, and flickering neon sign, is perfect.
We slide into a corner booth. A plump waitress brings us menus, but Jordan already knows what he wants.
"Two burgers, large fries, and milkshakes," he says. "Banana for her, chocolate for me."
The waitress smiles and shuffles away.
I reach across the table for his hand. "You remember my junk food order."
