Page 66 of Wicked Heat

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” His voice is a whisper, but the command in it is palpable.

“I’m not thinking anything,” I lie.

“You’re thinking that you like this. Your legs spread. My hand on your skin. Your eyes closed. The motion of the car. It’s visceral. Sensual. And you want to beg me to slide my hand up your thigh. To find your core. To tease and touch. To make you hot. To make you beg. And then, finally, to take you over.”

I fight a whimper, then manage a soft whisper instead. “No.” But it’s a lie, and we both know it. I want exactly that, and my body is on fire simply from his words.

But I don’t want it yet. Or rather, I want it all. Exactly how he described it. Slow. Sensual. Safe.

I want the sensation to build. I want to feel. I want to want.

I want to go over from the touch of a hand not my own. And when I do, I don’t want to be afraid.

As the vibration of the car caresses me, his fingers do the same, easing higher and higher with such infinitesimal slowness that it feels as though we’ve traveled miles and miles before he’s even close to my core. My whole body feels alive. Hungry. Desperate.

And safe.

Now, though, he pulls his hand away, and I can’t help my low groan of protest. For the last several miles, I’ve been forcing myself not to beg him to slide those fingers higher. To tease my clit. To slip inside me. I’m so wet. So needy. And all I crave in the world right now is for his touch to take me over.

So why is he doing the exact opposite of what I want?

I open my eyes, knowing I’m breaking the rules, but not caring.

“Problem?” He takes his eyes off the road, his brows raised in question as amusement dances in those deep blue eyes.

“Nope,” I say.

“Good. I need you to do something for me.” His voice is casual, but before I can answer, he changes his tone, his words turning low and sensual when he says, “Put your seat back up. Then tug down your bodice.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

An odd sensation courses through me. Arousal, yes. But fear, too. All mixed together in a cocktail of trust and longing and pure sensual need.

“Ash, no. Anyone passing on my side of the car will see.”

I hadn’t raised the protest before. The car’s seat—and anything that might be going on down there—would be visible only to a trucker who rode right alongside us. And at the speed Ash is driving, the odds of a truck keeping up are slim. But this is different. My breasts will be right there in the window.

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to rake a heated gaze over me. “So let them see,” he says as his fingertip finds my clit, making me arch up in both arousal and surprise. “You’re beautiful.”

The pure need that races through me is so intense that I squirm against his hand, silently begging him to slip his fingers inside me.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he says with a tenderness that makes this moment seem truly intimate rather than porny and prurient. “Tell me you like this,” he murmurs as he gently strokes my clit.

“Yes.” The word is barely breath.

“Good.” He slips two fingers inside me. “I like it, too,” he says as I rock my hips, silently begging for him to take me over even as his touch steals my thoughts and my reason, leaving me a shell of lust and need.

“Now do what I asked,” he murmurs. “The bodice. Down. I want to watch you tease your nipples.”

“Ash, no.” The protest is genuine, but even so, my pussy tightens around his fingers, my desire trying to win out over my fear. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“You touching me,” I say. “That was the deal. There was nothing about me touching myself.”

I can’t tell if the small noise he makes is a laugh or frustration. But when he pulls his hand away, it’s me who’s frustrated.