My hands find their way to his chest, and I press my palms against the dense muscles there. He smells clean, like the shower gel he uses and, underneath it, his natural scent. It’s so familiar to me now I can no longer describe it. I only know I want to draw it deep into my lungs. I want to close my eyes and lean into him. But I keep them open and focus on the golden skin of his throat.
I love that part of his body, the vulnerability of his sensitive skin. I love the little hollows just above his collarbones where his neck dips down to meet his shoulders, and I know that if I press my mouth to that tender spot and suckle it, he’ll give me a helpless, near whimper of sound that he always does when I kiss him there. I almost whimper myself. Did I miss him?
“Yes.”
I can feel him smile against my cheek. “Good.” The tips of his fingers graze under my jaw, just over my racing pulse.
“Is this your car?” I blurt out. Smooth. Either Drew likes to lean on strangers’ cars or I’m the idiot who’s stating the obvious.
Drew draws back a little and glances at it. “Yep.”
“It’s gorgeous.” I’m a wimp. Taking the coward’s way out of Dodge.
His tilted smile is wry. He knows I’m trying to distract him, and it clearly amuses him. But he plays along. Drew turns and lovingly runs his palm over the glossy hood of the car. “This here is Little Red.”
“Little Red,” I repeat. It makes me think of what he called me the first time we talked: Big Red. The moment I decided to hate him. And I wonder how it is that I’m here now. How has this happened? Me wanting him more than my next breath. Me needing him more than I’ve ever needed anyone.
Perhaps he feels my tension, because he eyes me carefully. “It’s a term of affection, you know,” he says in a low voice. “Anyway, I didn’t name her.”
“Her?”
“All cars are ladies, Jones.” He winks. And it ought to be cheesy, winking like that, but it’s not. It makes me want to kiss his cheek. He’s not only sexy, he’s fucking adorable. And he’s completely ignorant of my moony expression because he’s back to stroking his car. “She’s a 1971 Chevy Camaro Z28.” His expression dims a little, becoming almost bittersweet. “She was my dad’s. He got her at a junkyard and restored her from the frame out.”
His pride rings clear, and he gives the car another pat. “It drove my mom nuts when he spent his weekends tinkering with Little Red, but she knew how much he loved it so…” He shrugs.
“Did you ever work on it?”
“Mostly it’s only tune ups and belt changes now, but, yeah, I know how to fix a car, if that’s what you’re asking.” A little mischief brews in his dark eyes. “Want to go for a ride?”
“Now?”
“No. Three hours from now,” he deadpans. “I figure you can get in your pjs, maybe sleep for a while, then we’ll go out.”
“Smart ass.”
He’s already opening the passenger door. “Come on, Jones, ride with me.”
I hesitate.
“It’ll be nice and warm with the heat on,” he adds.
The Camaro’s dark interior gleams in the yellow glow of the parking lot light. Drew is waiting. He wants to kiss me. He wants everything.
I take a little breath. “Okay, but this thing had better go fast.”
“She’ll set your hair straight.” He gives one of my curls a playful tug before closing the door behind me.
Inside, the car smells of old leather and a bit of Drew’s shaving cream. It’s that subtle scent of Drew that makes me sink into my seat and inhale deeply. Then he’s getting into the car. His grin is like a kid’s when he turns the key and the car rumbles to life with a growl.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he says to her, “purr for me.”
“Would you like a little time alone?” I ask, but I love the way he appreciates his car.
His dimple deepens. “This is a shared experience, Jones. Get with the program. Now buckle up.”
I do as ordered and happily sit back as he pulls out of the lot. He goes slow through the campus, turning on the heat and fiddling with the radio. Soon I’m warm enough to pull off my coat, and Led Zepplin’s Kasmir fills the silence.
“You weren’t kidding about the classic rock,” I say, taking a look around the dash. “I’m surprised there isn’t an eight-track in here.”
“I’m surprised you know what an eight-track is.”