Joy Ride

When it’s time to wrap up in the early evening, she grabs her purse and heads to the restroom. When she returns, her hair is thicker and fuller than before, and her lips shine with red gloss. She takes a deep breath then speaks in an even tone. “I have a question for you.”

“Have at it.”

“Did it surprise you that I could solve a problem?”

“Huh?” I ask as I gather the tools and put them away.

“You acted surprised that I figured out the issue with the seat.”

I shake my head as I sort the wrenches into their drawers. “No. I wasn’t surprised you figured it out.”

“You seemed shocked.” Her pitch rises.

“Well, I wasn’t.” My voice tightens.

“Is it because you really never thought I would amount to anything?”

I blink. “Are you insane? I always thought you were crazy talented.”

“You didn’t promote me because of one mistake on the Mustang. But maybe it wasn’t about one mistake. Maybe it was that you never thought I was good enough.”

I shake my head, my jaw clenching. “You went out and proved me wrong then, so why do you care what I thought?”

“That’s a good question, isn’t it?” She taps her chin. “Why do I care?”

I park my hands on my hips. “You tell me.”

She shakes her head and walks toward the rear of the Lambo, then swivels around and paces back. As I snap a tool drawer closed, she enters my line of sight. I straighten, and she’s standing right in front of me, her eyes brimming with red-hot pissed-off-ness.

Fuck the color wheel. She’s a forest fire right now, branches and tree trunks snapping to the ground in a blaze. She bites out the next words. “There’s something I need to say to you.”

I tense because this can’t be good. I lean against the hood of the Challenger. “Say it.”

“Can you stop making insinuations about what I do after hours?”

I furrow my brow. “What are you talking about?”

She levels a hard stare at me. “You made the boyfriend comment at Thalia’s. You thought I was calling some guy when I was actually peeing and calling my brother. Earlier, you made some sort of insinuation about what I was doing at the Hudson because I have a notepad from the hotel. Are you obsessed with my nighttime activities?”

“No,” I scoff, rolling my eyes for good measure. “I don’t think of what you do at night. Or during the day either.”

It’s a bald-faced lie. I’ve surpassed my recommended daily allowance of thoughts about one woman ever since she returned to town.

“Good. Because you shouldn’t be thinking of what I’m doing.” She flicks her hair off her shoulder. My eyes follow her hand, watching every move she makes.

A waft of something that smells like spring apples floats by. Did she spray perfume on her neck when she was in the restroom? My mouth waters, and my pulse pounds in my ears. The woman looks and smells absolutely sexy at five in the evening after working on a car all day—from mechanic to sexpot in one quick restroom trip.

Reality smacks me in the gut. She probably has a date tonight. She’s probably seeing whoever she screwed at the Hudson last night. My jaw tightens. My fists clench.

That’s why she’s laying down the law with me. So I can stay the fuck out of her personal life. And you know what? That’s exactly where I need to be.

Out.

I shrug, like this conversation is pointless. “I’m not thinking at all about what you do.”

“Good.” She raises that stubborn little chin. “Because I’m not thinking about what you do.”

But I am thinking of that little streak of grease on her chin that I just noticed. I picture her meeting her date with that dirt on her face. Even I’m not that much of an asshole. I step closer, bring my thumb to my tongue, and wet it. She watches me curiously.

“You have . . .” I point in the direction of the streak.

She lifts her hand to wipe it.

“Don’t do that,” I say, harshly. “You’ll smudge it and look stupid.”

I bring my thumb to her face. Her big brown eyes follow my hand. Those eyes sparkle, and up close like this they darken. But not in that angry way I’ve seen. It’s different now, as if they’re blazing as she watches every move I make. When the pad of my thumb presses against her cheek, her breath hitches.

As I rub my thumb over her skin, a small gasp of air follows, then she clamps her lips shut.

Back and forth I rub, removing the streak. She’s inches from me now, so close I can tell she sprayed the spring apple perfume on her collarbone. So near I can smell her cinnamon breath.

My pulse thunders.

When I finish, I don’t let go of her face. I cradle her jaw in my hand.

It’s her move.

And she makes it.

26

She leans into my hand, and her lips part the slightest bit.

I crack.

I slam my mouth to hers.

I don’t take my time. I don’t ease into it. My lips crush hers, and I kiss her as if it’s all I’ve wanted to do since the first time I saw her slide out from under a car in my garage. Since she sauntered up to me at the show weeks ago. Since the night in my tub.

I kiss her as if I’ve suffered without kissing her. She kisses me back the same way.

We aren’t gentle. We aren’t slow. We touch with fire and anger. She opens her mouth, and I sweep my tongue across hers, groaning as I devour her taste.

She’s fresh and cinnamony, and it strikes me that she brushed her teeth in the restroom. The fact that I don’t know if she did it for me or wherever she’s going next makes me crush her lips harder. I grab her face, clasping her cheeks roughly as I back her up to the Challenger and shove her against the hood.

Her hands slide up my chest, and lust licks my veins. She travels higher, roping her fingers in my hair then tugging on the strands to bring my mouth even closer to her—such a hungry little thing.

I consume her mouth, getting drunk on her cinnamon taste, craving more of it. Jamming my thigh against hers, I push her legs open.

Then I stop, my breath coming in harsh puffs. “I’m not thinking about what you’re doing tonight,” I hiss as I grip her hips and hike her up onto the hood.

“I’m not thinking about what you’re doing either,” she fires back with her smart mouth. Those lips are no longer glossy. They’re bruised and swollen. Good. I want to mark her. I want her to smell like me. I want her to wear the evidence of this moment all over her body.

I drag my fingers through her hair, yanking it. She emits a needy gasp. “So fucking pretty,” I growl as I bring my mouth down on that delicious neck. I kiss the column of her throat so hard I’m sure there will be a sandpaper trail from my stubble on her delicate skin. And she doesn’t seem to mind at all. She moans as I bring my mouth down on the hollow of her throat. I lick her there. Frantically, she opens her legs wider, as if she’s trying to draw me in to the V. Heeding her call, I shove my body against her, my hard-on rigid against her thigh. She draws a sharp breath as I press into her.

“I don’t care what you were doing at the Hudson,” I say, as I bring my teeth to her neck and bite.

A yelp rings out, but she wraps her legs tighter around me. I grind into her, letting her know how much I want to fuck her, letting her feel how hard she makes me. I bet she’s so fucking wet. Whatever grasp I had on common sense unravels in each rough press of my mouth to her neck. I bite, and I suck, and I devour her neck, keeping her hair wrapped tightly in my fist.