“Say it.”
“Shit. Fine. I won’t bring more than two chicks to your barbeque.” Blake’s jaw is so tight I’m surprised he doesn’t bust a tooth. This guy is so easy to mess with.
“You forgot, ‘I promise, Jonah’.”
Umpf!
My breath is knocked from my lungs as Blake tries to take me down to the mat . . . unsuccessfully.
Four
Raven
It’s day three working on the Impala: seventeen hours and thirty-eight minutes to be exact. I keep track of the hours spent at Jonah’s for my time card, not because I mark every minute with him, committing it to memory so that when my work here is done I have something to remind me of our time together.
I’ve got the engine out and apart. Going through it piece by piece, I set aside the things that can be salvaged while Jonah disassembles the inside. Perched at a workbench, I sort through the motor brackets.
Out of the few restorations I’ve done over the years, this one is by far the best: high-end tools at my disposal, clean working environment, great company . . . and the view. Like the one I have right now.
Jonah is lying on his back across the front seat of the car, his head underneath the dashboard. His t-shirt slid up, exposing a few inches of his firm stomach. A strip of dark hair trails from his belly button and disappears beneath his saggy jeans. His strong legs are open in a V to brace his weight against the floor.
“Ouch, gosh dang it!” I grab my bloody finger, more worried about bleeding on Jonah’s stuff than the extent of my injury.
“You okay?” Jonah rises from his sexy pose and stands across the workbench from me, worry etched on his perfect face.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Stupid rusty bracket.” I move to stick my finger in my mouth when he grabs my hand.
“No, don’t do that. Germs.”
Heat rises up my neck and into my face. “Oh, you’re right.” I rub my forehead, hoping that I can cover my embarrassment with my free hand. “Mouths are dirty.”
He lifts his gaze from my wound, but I avoid his eyes. “Not germs from your mouth. Germs from your hand. Who knows what kind of shit is living on that thing.” He motions to the offending bracket. I peek up at him and watch a smile tug at his lips. “From what I can tell, you have a very clean mouth.” He flashes one dimple, before his gaze drops to my lips.
I roll them together, wetting them with my tongue. My chest rises and falls in erratic bursts and heat floods my body.
“I’ve got something for that.” The deep timbre of his voice draws me closer until I’m leaning toward him over the workbench.
I swear the man could bed any woman with one look. He releases my hand to walk to the nearby cabinets. I slump forward, bolstering myself against the tabletop to keep upright.
I’m no idiot when it comes to lust. I’ve seen it in men before. But I’ve never felt it: The burning need pushing against my chest; the building tension that coils in my belly; my blood racing in my veins, flooding my head with visions of his hands on my body. Desire fires my skin, flushing my cheeks. I look around for something to use to fan myself.
“Here ya go.” His voice is right at my side, and I push back the urge to rub up against him as Dog does when I’m holding his food.
He lifts my hand sending delicious tingles down my arm. With a quick squeeze of ointment, he wraps my finger in a Band-Aid. His hands are surprisingly gentle for their size, and I wonder how many women have felt their tenderness in better places than their hands. Thousands would be my guess. My stomach twists with painful jealousy.
“You’re good at this. I guess you’d have to be in your profession.”
“Yeah, I get a lot of practice.” He finishes with my hand and throws out the wrappers.
I want to thank him for taking care of my wound. I’ve been on my own for so long I don’t remember the last time someone took such care with me. The gratitude I feel for his kindness makes me want to throw myself into his arms and kiss him. Gratitude, yeah right, that’s what I’m feeling. Instead, I change the subject.
“What got you into fighting? Were you a wrestler in high school?”
He clears his throat. “No, I started street fighting first.”
With his knuckles on the workbench, he drops his head for a moment before bringing his eyes back to mine. For the first time, there’s sadness there.
“My dad died when I was twelve.” The words come out forced, like he’s not used to the feeling of them on his lips. “I became the man of the house way before I was ready. I started getting in fights at school, getting in trouble all the time. My mom,” he pauses to run both hands through his hair, “she was destroyed when my Dad died. I just made things worse.”