“I have nothing to hide.”
He groans when I unbutton his jeans. “I don’t have condoms on me.”
“I don’t care—I’m on the pill.” I unbutton and unzip my own jeans.
“Two forms of birth control.” His voice is deep and breathy, but he’s squeezing my ass as I bear down on him, dry humping him like some idiot who’s trying to resuscitate him because I think his heart is in his crotch. I lift my hands up to the ceiling and let my head fall as I arch back, and he pushes up my tight little T-shirt—my lucky Led Zeppelin T-shirt that’s the color of his hair—so he can kiss my breasts. He rocks his hips to match my rhythm.
Does driving make everyone this horny? I am definitely going to get my driver’s license now. I feel like I can do anything. Maybe I should get my pilot’s license when I retire from dancing!
“God, what are you doing to me?” he asks my boobs.
I’ll let them answer. They can speak for me. I am wild and blind with desire, and all I want is for John Brandt to lose his mind from wanting me as much as I want him. “Fuck me, John Brandt! I want your big, hard dick inside me.”
“Olivia.”
That stern, reprimanding voice just makes me even hornier, and he knows it.
I’ve heard of mothers who’ve lifted up cars to save their children because of all the cortisol and adrenaline coursing through their veins. I’m so flooded with happy hormones right now, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to lift up this car and shake it until he agreed to pull his dick out. I just need him to pull it out, and I will take it from there. I desperately need to feel something between my legs besides my own throbbing ache.
“Now, Johnny.”
“This introduces significant risk,” he mutters as he reaches down to unzip his jeans. “I can’t control myself around you anymore.” He sounds defeated but accepting.
This. Being the one thing that makes this man lose control is a drug, and I’ve become a junkie. A really horny junkie.
I lift myself off his lap so he can reach inside his pants, but I finally realize that I need to get my pants off too. I try to push them down my hips, but even with the flexibility of nearly two decades’ worth of ballet training, there is no possible way for me to extract myself from this denim prison without getting out of the front seat.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I open the passenger door and climb out, somehow thinking I can peel my jeans off while lifting my leg over John. But I lose my battle with gravity.
I do land on the asphalt gracefully, though, and without any pain, for aforementioned happy-hormone reasons. I’m laughing so hard I don’t have the strength to lift my hips up and push my pants down.
“Are you okay?!” John is laughing. God, I love to hear him laugh.
I can’t stop snort-laughing. “No! Can you pull my pants off for me?!”
“I don’t think I can physically get out of the car with this big of a hard-on.”
My eyes have filled with tears, not just from laughing—because my lady parts are in despair.
I hear something and manage to raise my head up to see, through blurry eyes, a man in a navy blue uniform approaching.
CHAPTER 26
OLIVIA
Icannot believe I was so reckless. I can’t believe I almost banged my fake boyfriend in a car behind an abandoned warehouse—without a condom. I will be forever grateful to that old cop for showing up when he did and to my jeans for being so tight, because I was so horny that it didn’t even occur to me that I’d been taking my birth control pills at different times—what with all the traveling and time-zone changes. Who knows what could have happened?! I could have gotten pregnant. Yes, there’s always emergency contraception, but that would really mess up my hormones and make me feel sick.
I will never drive a car again—I know that much. It made me so libidinous that I wanted to screw John Brandt in public in broad daylight more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.Morethan I wanted to screw him thoseothertimes. Possibly—and this is what terrifies me—possiblymore than I want to dance the lead inGisellefor a prominent-city ballet company.
This month with Johnny is supposed to be fun. It’s not supposed to change the course of my life.Thisis why I’m so dedicated to ballet. Because deep down I know that I’d be ruledby my feelings all the time if I didn’t have such a rigorous devotion to practice and conditioning and choreography.
But that’s my work. That’s ten months of the year. This is the part of my year where I should be able to have some fun. This is when I’m supposed to correct imbalances. This is supposed to be an unchoreographed dance. I have absolutely no idea who’s leading. I don’t know if John has more to lose than I do, but why should either of us lose anything?
In a shocking turn of events, John appears to be a bit flustered but unperturbed. “You sure you don’t want a drink?” he asks. We’ve been at the restaurant for his fundraiser for twenty minutes, and he’s asked me that three times.
“No, thank you. Do you?”
“I should wait until after I give my speech. Shit. I haven’t worked on my speech.”
