His voice is already low, husky. Like a man balls-deep inside a woman, on the verge. The intensity of his desire presses in on me like summer heat. My pulse flutters inside me, impossibly fast, like the wings of a hummingbird. I lift my chin. “Seems like it.”
“Here,” Jonah says, stepping past me. “I’d like to take a look.”
He puts his hands on the side of my Civic. I expect him to just proclaim some vague sort of problem, but no. He walks around the entire car, studying it the entire way. My God, he’s actually checking it out, like I might really have engine trouble.
At first I’m amused—is he going to go to all the trouble of changing my tire again? Then it hits me. Jonah has committed completely to this role. To our game. When he goes into this mode, nothing can draw him out of it except the word silver. Unless I say it, Jonah will remain only a stranger who has me at his mercy. He will be the perfect embodiment of every dark fantasy I’ve ever had.
I remain silent.
The warm breeze tugs at the hem of my red sundress as I watch Jonah. He says, “Looks like you need some help.”
“Sure could use a hand.” My Southern accent normally isn’t that strong, but it’s come out to play.
Jonah likes my drawl. I can tell by the way his eyes darken as he studies me. “We ought to talk.”
“Talk?”
“About how we’re going to handle this.” He nods toward the car. “You need a lot of work done, if you want to get moving again anytime soon. Work doesn’t come cheap.”
As long as I don’t say the word silver, this is real. I’m stranded out here, alone, with this man so tall and strong he could overpower me in an instant. And he’s my only chance of getting out of here—so I have to do anything he wants.
Anything.
“I—” My voice shakes with both anticipation and fear. “I haven’t got much on me.”
“Sure haven’t.” Jonah’s eyes drop to my breasts, only barely covered by the low-cut neckline of my red sundress.
I blush so hot he can probably see it even in shadow. “I meant, I didn’t bring my purse.”
“No license? No phone? No cash? Not a very good idea.”
“I guess not.”
“Don’t worry,” Jonah purrs, stepping closer. “I’ve got you.”
If only we could be sure nobody would drive along this stretch of road anytime soon. Then he could throw me down on the hood, rip my dress away, and take me as hard and mercilessly as he did the first time. My knees go weak, and I have to brace one hand against the car door. I bite my lower lip before I whisper, “I could give you my number. You could call me tomorrow, and I’d pay anything you wanted.”
“I don’t want your money.” He nods toward his car. “Get in. Let’s talk.”
Slowly—as if reluctantly—I walk toward Jonah’s dark sedan. My right hand trembles as I reach for the front passenger door, but Jonah steps past me to open the back door instead. I hesitate, breath catching, before I slip inside.
A lot of guys seem to care about their cars too much or not at all. Either they have sports cars or vintage numbers they fixed up, and they bore you with talk about horsepower and acceleration—or they have totally normal cars permanently littered with empty fast-food bags and junk mail, and they tell you to just kick that soda can on the floor out of your way. Neither scenario is attractive.
Jonah’s sedan is long, sleek, and elegantly impersonal. Cream-colored leather covers the seats. It smells like he drove it off the lot this morning. The interior gives away nothing about what kind of person Jonah Marks might be. I scoot to the far end of the car, tucking the skirt of my sundress under me as Jonah slides in after.
He slams the door. The overhead light goes off. Now the only illumination comes from the soft blue glow of his satellite radio.
Jonah studies me for a moment. No doubt he’s taking in the rise and fall of my chest, the way I’m already shaking. He makes me wait for several breaths before he says, “Kick off your shoes. Get comfortable.”
I obey, letting the heels slip from my feet, even as I say, “I don’t want to stay in your car.”
“You want to get home, don’t you?”
“I—I appreciate you helping me—”
“I’m going to help you, but you have to help me. See?”
This is—softer than our first time. Not an act of angry brutality. Instead Jonah’s using coercion, putting me in a place where I say yes because I feel like there’s no way out if I say no. Edging me closer and closer to a line that he’ll then drag me over. It’s an entirely different kind of force, but force all the same.
And it turns me on just as hard.
Jonah brushes one fingertip along my bare shoulder. I shiver as I pull back. He clucks his tongue and smiles. “So shy. That’s no way to act with someone who’s trying to be nice to you.”
“I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. You’re going to be nice to me too. Here. Give me your hand.”