Chapter Thirteen
She told herself that this could not possibly be any worse than being inside his house after he had asked her in for coffee.
Or sitting beside him in the book nook, being read to and almost hand kissed.
But of course as soon as they were in the truck together, she realized that this wasn’t just like sitting on a couch or a bench with someone.
This was like being trapped on a couch or a bench with someone.
With nowhere to go. And no way of extricating herself from the situation.
She couldn’t just jump from the car on the highway, or in the middle of the movie, or at the end of the movie, or while driving back.
She had to remain there, sitting next to him, for hours and hours.
And in a space far smaller than she remembered it being before.
Their arms were pretty much touching somehow.
Hell, their thighs were almost doing the same.
Every time she shifted in her seat, they seemed to nearly brush each other.
She found herself wishing she’d worn thicker stockings—even though her stockings were very thick indeed.
Gray, and woolen, and covering absolutely everything.
Yet, still, she got the full impact of his unbearable heat through them.
And not even pressing herself against her door could stop it happening.
It was almost like the car was shrinking.
Pressurizing. By the time they got to the drive-in, and found their space, and he had ordered popcorn and peanuts and drinks and all kinds of candy, it felt like she was being cooked alive.
Her cheeks were flushed; every inch of her skin felt sticky.
And it wasn’t just her reacting weirdly to nothing, either.
The windows steamed over almost immediately.
He had to swipe at the windshield with his sleeve.
They ended up watching the start of the movie he had picked— The Rocky Horror Picture Show —through a small hole surrounded by fog.
And one that unfortunately only appeared on her side of the car.
She tried to focus on the title credits through that tiny circle, and then realized that in order to do the same he had to lean close.
Really close.
So close it felt as if his cheek caressed hers every time he moved.
It took her a second to realize that it wasn’t actual contact that was making her tingle there.
It was the air between them, syrup thick and fat with that heat of him.
It stroked over her skin, so softly she almost sank toward him.
She only stopped herself by thinking of that dash to the bathroom.
Though even that wasn’t really helping her now.
He’d told her it was nothing. Not what she’d thought. And now they were right back in the same situation, ready to pick up where they left off. Or, at least, so her body tried to tell her. Just turn your head and do what comes naturally , it urged her. He doesn’t think it’s wrong or bad of you to.
But her body was being a nightmare.
She had to answer it back, so firmly it felt like speaking aloud: Yes, but what if I think it is.
What if it’s bad for me. What if I’m falling for him, and this makes it worse.
He likes someone else, it will only get me hurt.
And that seemed to settle things for a little while.
The film played on. Brad and Janet got to the spooky house.
Atmospheric music filled the car. He seemed into it, she thought.
Then she dared to glance his way, and saw that he wasn’t even watching the damned thing.
He wasn’t looking through the windshield at the screen.
He was looking at her. The moment she turned her head, her eyes met his, gleaming in the dimness, heavy lidded, so obviously full of longing she could never have mistaken it.
Maybe he does like someone else but he sure as heck desires you , her body informed her.
Only this time, her mind didn’t try to disagree.
She knew he wanted this.
Somehow, he did.
And god knows, she wanted it, too.
And it was possible, at least, that wanting was enough.
That heated feelings were enough. Not everything has to be love , she thought, not everyone has to be the perfect soulmate.
Sometimes it can just be hot, it can be passionate.
Like in the books when they get it out of their systems. Like a tryst, of the sort you’ve always wanted, but never really been allowed.
Because it’s always a Murray, it’s always a Frank, it’s always some fool who does absolutely nothing for you.
And not someone who makes you weak in the knees with one look.
Or says one sentence and has you willing to risk it all.
Because he did. He spoke low and rumbly, in that gorgeous voice of his. That curdled-by-smoke voice. “Tell me what you would want someone to do to you now,” he said, like he just couldn’t help himself.
It was fine, though.
She couldn’t help herself, either.
“I’d want a kiss,” she whispered.
Though truthfully, she didn’t believe he would.
She thought of him the way he’d been the night before—mostly uncertain, baffled at the thought that coffee meant sex, hardly daring to touch her.
Or even as he’d been in the bookstore, more confident but still almost genteel—and imagined it would be the same.
And in some ways it was. He moved with caution, his eyes on her face, watching for her reaction to every little thing.
Ready to stop at the slightest indication he should.
Not touching her, not drawing her close, no sudden moves.
But the thing was, he’d already done this once.
He’d taken a step, and been reassured it was okay.
Been given confidence by lessons that had barely seemed like lessons at all.
So now there was something more to it. A different energy, that charged the air between them. It made her feel as if he were kissing her before he even made contact. And then he did, he just brushed his lips over hers, soft as someone testing out the fur of an exotic animal, and god, god .
It almost made her push against him.
Even though she knew he was still just tentatively feeling things out. He just caressed her lips with his, agonizingly soft despite the bristle of that stubble, that almost mustache. Like he wanted to make sure he was going about this the right way. So she reassured him the best way she knew how.
She kissed him back.
Just to show him that it was totally okay.
Though of course it couldn’t stay that way.
Because oh, she knew it was all right with him now.
And god, he tasted exactly as he had the night before.
Better, in fact. There was a hint of cinnamon this time—as if he thought that smoky deliciousness needed to be disguised.
He’d chewed gum before he swung by to pick her up, and this was the result.
Something that made her hungry for more.
Like he was a plate of amazing food, and she was half starved, and all she could do was grab and devour as much of him as possible before he disappeared. Before he wasn’t hers to have. Because that was true, and it was possible, and it meant she didn’t want to be cautious anymore.
She wanted to get great handfuls of him—and she did.
She bunched his shirt up into her fists. Shoved a hand in his thick, soft hair, and stroked and squeezed and pulled him tighter to her with it. And when even that wasn’t enough, she hooked her leg over his. Right over it, in a way that urged him against her in the lewdest possible way.
But the best part was his reaction.
The moment she did it, he made a sound into her mouth.
This dazed, helplessly horny kind of sound, like he couldn’t believe she was doing this—but god , he liked that she was.
And it wasn’t just this that told her that.
It was the way he was following her greedy mouth with his.
How he turned when she did, and gave in to the push of her against him, and parted his lips without hesitation.
Last time he’d held back from that.
This time he kissed her openmouthed, all hot and wet and so good she couldn’t help but make a sound, too. She groaned the moment he sank against her, for a second just as eager as she was, his tongue stroking over hers so deeply it made her think of a thousand deliciously filthy things.
Like: He’d definitely fuck you like that .
Like: He’d do that to your pussy, if you let him .
Though she didn’t really and truly believe that until she felt him shift.
His hand suddenly went to the seat behind her head, gripping it in this very particular sort of way.
Almost aggressive, and definitely done so he could get closer to her.
And his other hand—she knew what it wanted to do.
It stopped short, of course. It didn’t quite get ahold of the curve of her ass, her thigh.
But it wanted to. Then it hovered there, trembling with the effort of staying where it was—as if trying to resist without explicit consent.
So she gave it.
She simply pushed herself into that hand.
Too far into it, really, because somehow it made her skirt ruffle up and plunged him really far down, and before she knew where she was she had his hand almost between her legs.
And the moment she did, he tensed all over.
Mouth still on hers, but motionless suddenly.
Then he drew back, just enough that he could look down at what she’d done.
At his hand spread over her thigh, so high up he could have twitched a finger and gotten under the elastic of her panties.
Or dipped into that groove between her leg and her pussy.
And he knew it. He knew why she’d urged herself against him.
“You can’t possibly be this greedy for it,” he said. Almost like a scoff, in a way that made her blush. Maybe I made a mistake , she thought, and shifted back a little. She went to correct it, to explain.