My 4Runner is parked in one of the few well-lit areas in the middle of the lot.
“Is this thing safe?” Alex asks as I shove the key in the lock. It takes a few jiggles before it turns. The automatic locks stopped working six months ago.
“It passed the safety inspection last year.”
He pokes at a rusty spot on the side panel. “I can’t imagine how.”
“Stop! You’ll make it worse!” I put my hand over the rusty spot. “I have it serviced regularly.”
“By who?”
“Sidney has a guy. It’s driveable.” This is only mostly true. There’s a clunking sound my mechanic can’t seem to identify and some issues with the rear axle. I’m not allowed to take it on bumpy roads or the freeway.
Alex frowns as he continues to inspect my vehicle. “You’re sure he’s reliable?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
My 4Runner has been on its last leg for a good year. I bought it with my own money, and I’m sentimental, so I won’t get rid of it. I refuse Sidney’s repeated offer to buy me a new car. It’s too extravagant an expense.
“At least it’s big,” Alex mutters.
“Bigger isn’t always better.” The tank on this beast is bottomless.
“Oh?”
It takes a few seconds to clue in to the double meaning. Maybe he thinks I’m insulting his manhood. I consider his manhood—and how much I hate the word manhood. In Alex’s case, bigger is awesome. The only drawback is how hard it is to walk the day after said manhood has plundered my womanhood. I need to cut it with the historical romance references.
“In some cases bigger, isn’t better. Like with this.” I pat my SUV. “It’s a real gas guzzler. I try to limit my driving to work and the grocery store so I don’t ruin the environment. I’d invest in a hybrid if they weren’t so ugly and expensive.”
Alex is wearing a sexy-as-hell amused smile while he listens to me ramble. One hand is braced on the vehicle, and he’s leaning in. If he moves an inch or two closer, it might feel like he’s planning to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. My brain has stopped working, and I continue with the nonsensical babble.
“For you”—I point in the general direction of his groin—“bigger is sort of better. I mean, huge is nice, too. You’ve got huge covered well. I like it.” I bite my lip to stop the words.
“So what you’re saying is bigger is only sort of better in my case?”
“What? No, no. It’s fantastic, hard on the . . .” I gesture to my crotch. Dammit. I’m making it sound bad. I don’t want to offend him. “I’m sure I could get used to it after a while . . . with some practice.”
“I’m good at practice.”
He moves closer. He smells like chocolate and sandalwood or whatever he washes his hot, firm body with. He’s wearing one of those beanie things, like a ski cap, with a band logo on it. The Tragically Hip, maybe. His hair has grown in the past month; it curls around the edges. I want to press my lips against his and finger those errant strands. Him. Me. I want.
“Can I kiss you?” His palm is on my cheek, his fingers sliding into my hair. “I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”
And he reads minds, too. “It’s okay.”
He’s an inch from my lips. “I’ve been dying to taste you since . . .”
I wait for him to finish his sentence or follow through and kiss me already. Hold up, did he say taste? Hell, I’ll let him devour me.
He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. His fingers are cold. I shiver and inhale an asthmatic breath. Our eyes lock. I can’t look away.
I do that weird thing people do when someone they want to get it on with puts one of their digits—except for toes—near their mouth. I allow my tongue to peek out and taste his skin. It’s yummy, probably residue from the sugary chocolate beverage he stuck it in earlier. I have the urge to bite his thumb. So I do.
He mumbles a quiet curse. Then his thumb is gone, and his mouth is on mine. Our bodies are flush; he presses me heavily into the frame of my shit heap. If I wasn’t wearing a thick wool coat, I might be able to feel whether or not he’s hard.
He angles my head to the side and sucks on my bottom lip. The kiss grows deeper and more frantic. Well, I’m frantic. I grab for his hair, but his hat’s in the way and my fingers are frozen—courtesy of the mid-March cold. It’s annoying and inconvenient.
Meanwhile, Alex has turned into a jacket-MacGyver. He manages to get two buttons undone. Now I can feel him and he can feel me up. I molest his mouth with my tongue and shamelessly dry hump him for all I’m worth.
It’s fabulous until someone shouts, “Woo-hoo! Give it to her good!”
The mouth fucking ceases instantly. Alex spins to face the would-be voyeur. Taking a protective stance, he blocks me from view. I hide behind his jacket for extra cover. Public dry humping is not something I want to be recognized for.
I peek around his shoulder. Two guys, maybe a year or two younger than I am, stand not more than ten feet away.