“I mean, I never noticed you smelling like that stuff, but now that I think about it, you did have to—”
Before she can finish her rant, I lean down and pull her towards me. The seatbelt holds her back, but I more than meet her halfway. My lips crash against hers, stopping her tirade and ending it with a muffled umph of a noise that vibrates against my lips. My tongue pushes in and I groan at the familiar taste of her mouth—sweet, hot sugar and spice. It’s a flavor I’ve never had before CC, and instinctively I know I will never find it anywhere else. It’s all her and I have a feeling it could be more addicting than any drug. Her tongue boldly wraps around mine. That’s another thing that’s all CC: she’s not shy. She knows what she wants and she goes after it completely—body and soul. As her tongue tangles with mine and fights for dominance, my dick hardens, pushing against my slacks. God, she’s something else. I thought I had somehow imagined just how great her kisses were. I now instantly know I was wrong. They are that great. Her fingers bite into my shoulders as my hands push under her shirt. Her hot skin greets my touch—hot enough to brand a man. I pull away for a breath and she whimpers, her mouth following me. I groan, giving in, and dive back into her mouth to drink again before slowly breaking away.
When the kiss is over, our foreheads remain connected. Her hands remain on my shoulders and I sure as hell will not take my hands off of her sides and stomach unless she makes me. She takes a very shaky breath, swallows, and then slowly pulls away from me. She looks up at me, her green eyes almost glowing.
“You kiss pretty good for an old man,” she says, and I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I laugh before I can stop myself. Shit, this woman constantly surprises me.
I might be getting in over my head.
“You okay, C?” Jackson asks, when I drop my damn wrench again.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mutter, lying out of my ass. I’m not fine. I’m very far from fine. My mind is where it has been for the last three days ever since Gray dropped me off at my house after our date—a date which started off horrible, got worse, never did result in food, and ended with a kiss that has haunted me ever since. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, and for several reasons. The biggest of those being that Grayson Lucas is some kind of golf god. I googled him after our date and what I learned was enough to blow my mind… and turn my stomach. He’s famous, he’s rich, and worse: he’s a big time player. His exploits with women have been plastered on every tabloid coming or going. Just last month, his biggest sponsor booted him because there was a video uploaded of him online. A sex video. A video of him and two other women—one of those women being the daughter of a very well-known golf sponsor. Gossip on the net was that he was shuffling to find a new sponsor, one that would get him back in the good graces of the upcoming tour promoters and committee. That would be why he is here and why he is dealing with David Riverton. All that together spells disaster with a capital D, and reveals a million reasons why I have to stay away from Grayson.
Which is why when my cellphone (a number I gave him after he kissed me again on our horrible date) rings for the fifth time today, I ignore it.
“That lover boy again?” Jackson asks, and I ignore him, finally getting the last bolt on the radiator assembly we’re installing tightened. “He seemed like a nice guy, C. He made you smile. Cut him some slack.”
“You know anything about golf, Jackson?”
“Golf?”
“Yeah. You know, little white balls being whacked with a club…”
“I try not to watch anything that involves balls being whacked, C.”
“Well, it seems Gray is, like, a mega golf star.”
“Mega?”
“Sponsors, tours, trophies, lots of money.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Damn. What’s he doing in Kentucky? We’re not exactly the golf capital of the world.”
“Courting David Riverton as a new sponsor.”
“Fuck.”
“That about sums it up.”
“Still, woman, just because he’s working with that fucker doesn’t mean you have to write him off.”
“He’s got money…”
“So?”
“By ‘money’ I mean he’s loaded. Hell, if he didn’t need Riverton to smooth over his black marks with the tour people, he probably could be his own sponsor.”
“Black marks?”
“Sex tape of him with two other women, one being the daughter of one of the major tour sponsors.”
“Jesus.”
“He’s bad news, Jackson. So, can we just forget it? In a few days he’ll go back to wherever they have golf games and it will be over.”
“I’m sorry, C. Seems you’ve inherited your old man’s ability at picking partners.”
“Yeah, it appears that way,” I tell him with a sigh.