Joy Ride

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.

I grab her chin roughly in my hand, and meet her eyes. They’re dazed, glossy. She’s panting. “You fucking drive me crazy,” I mutter.

“And you’re nothing but a cruel bastard,” she says, narrowing her eyes as she scrapes at my hair again with her fingers. The lion in her is fierce tonight. She jerks my head back then pushes my face down, down, down and right between her tits. “So damn cruel.”

I yank up her T-shirt and bury my face in the most wonderful place in the universe. Jesus Christ, her tits are heaven. I shove the cup of her black lace bra to the side—of course she wears black—and bring my teeth down on her nipple. She cries out again.

“This nipple drove me insane in the tub.”

She freezes. “Is that why you kicked me out?”

I raise my face and lock eyes with her. She looks so fucking desperate right now. “I couldn’t take it. You moved in the tub, and I saw it, and I had to fight off every instinct to bite it.”

“Do it now,” she urges. Before she even says the last word, my mouth is wrapped around her, and she is as fucking delicious as I imagined. I moan with her in my mouth, my dick growing impossibly harder as I draw that tight peak between my teeth. I suck as she curls her hands around my skull.

I come up for air. Her brown irises are wild now, and she looks like an animal.

“You were such a jerk that night.” She drags her hands over my T-shirt, lingering on my pecs. “You need to take this off now for being such a complete ass.”

I grip the back of my shirt, yanking it off.

Her mouth falls open in the sexiest expression I’ve ever seen. “You’re so . . .”

She doesn’t finish the thought. She runs her fingers over my bare skin, exploring my pecs, my abs, my arms. Her nails travel along my bicep, tracing the outline of the bands there, then the hawk on my shoulder. When she returns to my chest, she draws the Celtic tattoo on my right pec. My skin sizzles in the wake of her touch. Her fingertips light me up. They send electricity everywhere.

I tug at the waistband of her jeans. “These are really fucking inconvenient, Henley.”

“Why?” Her voice is feathery.

I bring my mouth to her ear, nip the earlobe, and whisper, “Because I’m going to fuck you right now. I’m going to fuck you and make you come hard, and you need to take off these stupid jeans.”

I back up and rustle around in my back pocket for my wallet. I flip it open and grab a condom. She gives me her yes in her busy hands—they unsnap the top button of her jeans. Then she unzips and shimmies them down her ass.

“Wait,” I say, as I put the condom on the yellow hood.

“Why?”

I grab my shirt. “Sit on this.”