Chapter Sixteen – Lola
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LOLA
I decide the best thing to do to get over the awkwardness of last night’s shower show is to drag Cole out of bed at butt-crack o’clock and make him work on Eleanor with me. The man could sleep through a hurricane, but even he isn’t immune to my particular brand of morning enthusiasm. Which mostly involves me banging around his kitchen, muttering about coffee, and threatening to unleash my inner banshee if he doesn’t surface soon.
Turns out, grumpy Cole in a rumpled T-shirt and a cloud of bedhead is somehow even more attractive than well-rested Cole. Who knew? Not that I’m staring or anything. Definitely not.
But a few stolen glances are enough to send my stomach into a nosedive. Seeing him in the harsh light of morning, the memory of those sudsy glimpses of his… physique… it’s all a bit much. Plus, there was the kiss that could end all kisses in victory lane.
So, Eleanor it is. Our usual sanctuary. The smell of oil and gasoline, the feel of a wrench in my hand, the satisfying click of a well-placed bolt—that is my comfort zone. Talking about feelings? Not so much.
“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Cole murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. His eyes are on me, intense and searching.
“Just enjoying the peace,” I lie, avoiding his gaze. “Before the day gets crazy.”
“Right,” he says, skepticism clear in his tone. “Because you’re known for your Zen-like calm.”
I shoot him a glare that could probably freeze gasoline. “Don’t push it this morning.”
“Then stop lying.”
His usually confident voice that is so damn cocky is soft, sending a shiver down my spine. He leans closer, his gaze searching mine with a sincerity that makes my breath catch. The air between us crackles, a stark contrast to the sterile calm of his garage.
“You’ve been… distant all morning. Was it yesterday?”
The shower.
The memory, unwelcome and vivid, floods back to my mind faster than the speed of light, almost like it never left at all. The steaming-hot water, the too-small space, the way my skin had practically sizzled while I watched him jerk off. My skin still feels sensitized, charged with an energy I can’t explain.
“Yesterday was… eventful,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper. Every nerve ending in my body seems to be on high alert, acutely aware of Cole’s proximity.
He takes another step closer, and I have to resist the urge to lean back and put some distance between us.
“Lola,” he breathes, his voice husky. “Talk to me.”
His words hang in the air between us, a plea and a challenge all wrapped up in one. The wrench slips in my greasy fingers, and I curse under my breath, more flustered than I care to admit.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended. It’s easier to deflect, to push him away, than to acknowledge the jumble of emotions swirling inside me. “That things are… weird now? That I can’t seem to look at you without picturing you?—”
I stop abruptly, biting back the rest of the sentence. Picturing him how? Naked as the day he was born, droplets of water clinging to his sculpted chest? The way his hair had darkened with moisture, curling slightly at the nape of his neck?
The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words and simmering tension. Cole doesn’t back down, his gaze unwavering.
“Without picturing me how, Lola?”
His voice is low and dangerous, a rumble that seems to vibrate in my chest. I swear I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. This infuriating man wants to talk about it, and I want to avoid it like the plague.
I take a deep breath, willing my pulse to slow. This close, I can see flecks of gold in the depths of his brown eyes, a warmth that belies the hard set of his jaw.
“With your cock in your hand,” My voice is barely a whisper.
The words hang in the air, shockingly loud in the silence of the garage. My cheeks burn, and for a moment, I think I might actually combust from the sheer mortification of it all.
Cole’s eyes widen slightly, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. It’s a devastatingly attractive smile, the kind that makes me want to simultaneously kiss him and run for the hills.
“Is that so?” he asks, his voice husky.
My gaze drops to his lips, full and slightly parted. They’re just begging to be kissed.
Oh, goodness. What am I doing?
Heat floods my cheeks, spreading down my neck and settling somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach. The wrench feels heavy in my hand, foreign and useless. My usual defenses— sarcasm, humor, a well-timed eye roll—desert me under the intensity of his gaze.
“I-I don’t…” I stammer, at a loss for words. Which, considering my usual way with words, is a feat in itself. Cole Lawson, of all people, has rendered me speechless.
He takes another step closer, his body brushing against mine, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core. The scent of motor oil and male surrounds me, intoxicating and strangely comforting.
“Lola,” he murmurs, his hand reaching out to cup my cheek. His thumb brushes lightly against my jawline, sending shivers down my spine. “It’s okay to want something.”
His words are a revelation, a whisper against the chaos of my thoughts. Want. It’s a foreign concept when it comes to Cole Lawson. For years, I’ve tried to bury the feelings he evokes, to convince myself that I’m better off without him. But the truth is, I’ve never stopped wanting him.
My gaze meets his, and in the depths of those whiskey-colored eyes, I see understanding, desire… and something that looks an awful lot like hope.
And in that moment, surrounded by engines and the scent of gasoline, I know I’m in way over my head. As much as I want to be an ostrich right about now and bury my head in the sand, Cole isn’t having it.
His thumb strokes my cheekbone, a gentle caress that sends shivers down to my toes. My breath hitches in my throat, and all I can think about is the feel of his calloused fingers against my skin, the warmth radiating from him like a physical force.
“Cole,” I whisper, his name a prayer and a protest all in one.
His name is all it takes.
The world seems to tilt on its axis as he closes the remaining distance between us. His lips brush against mine, soft and demanding at the same time. A jolt of electricity courses through me, sparking a fire in my veins that no amount of engine heat could ever replicate.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s possessive, hungry, fueled by years of unspoken longing and simmering tension. My fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer, and he groans, the sound vibrating against my lips.
His body presses against mine, hard and unyielding. The wrench, completely forgotten, clatters to the concrete floor, the sound lost in the rush of our breaths mingling in the space between us.
His hand slides down my neck, tracing the line of my throat before settling on my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. I melt against him, every inch of me aching for more.
His tongue traces my lower lip, seeking entrance, and when I open for him, it’s a surrender I’ve craved for far too long.
The kiss is everything I remember and more—the heat, the desperation, and the fact that Cole Lawson, and only Cole Lawson, could make me feel this way.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice whispers a warning: This is a bad idea. A colossal, life-altering mistake.
But in this moment, with Cole’s lips moving against mine, I can’t bring myself to care, so I ignore it and indulge in the moment.
He tastes of mint and coffee, a potent combination that sends a rush of desire straight to my core. It’s intoxicating, this feeling of losing myself in him, in the heat of the moment. Our tongues dance a tango of need and exploration, and it’s like coming home after a lifetime lost at sea.
His hands roam, exploring the curves of my body with a possessive hunger that makes my breath hitch in my throat. One hand cups the back of my head, holding me captive against his lips, while the other slides down my back, pressing me closer until there’s not a breath of air between us.
I’m vaguely aware of the cool concrete floor beneath my feet, the scent of gasoline and grease hanging heavy in the air, and the distant clanging of tools from somewhere in the depths of the garage. But none of it matters. The only thing that matters is the feel of Cole’s body against mine, the taste of him on my lips, and the way he makes me forget who I am, where I am.
He breaks the kiss, just long enough to trail a path of fire along my jaw, his breath hot against my ear.
“Lola,” he murmurs, his voice ragged. “Tell me to stop.”
It’s the only shred of self-control he’s offering, and we both know it.
But the word stop is a foreign language, and my tongue feels heavy, useless. All I can manage is a whimper, a sound that seems to fuel his desire.
His hand slides beneath my shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of my ribcage. His touch is electric, igniting a fire in my veins that threatens to consume me entirely.
And as his hand cups my breast, his thumb brushing against my nipple, I know I’m in way too deep.
A gasp escapes my lips, a mixture of surprise and something altogether more dangerous. The heat in my veins flares, spreading through my body like a wildfire. Cole’s touch is both reverent and demanding, his thumb stroking circles against my sensitive skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating outwards.
My head falls back against the cool metal of Eleanor’s chassis, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Cole’s body. I’m breathless and lightheaded, every nerve ending thrumming with a life of its own. The world outside our little bubble ceases to exist. There’s only Cole, his scent, his touch, and the way he makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years.
He breaks away for a moment, his gaze searching mine, dark with desire and something that looks suspiciously like vulnerability. It’s a look that undoes me, melting away years of carefully constructed defenses.
“This is…” I start to say, my voice a shaky whisper. But the words fail me. How do I articulate the way he makes me feel? Like I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice, terrified and exhilarated all at once?
Cole doesn’t need words. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath sending a fresh wave of shivers down my spine.
“This is us, Lola,” he murmurs, his voice husky. “Just like it was always supposed to be, just like it always should be.”
And as his lips find mine again, I can’t help but wonder if he’s right. Maybe this is destiny, fate, a force stronger than our own doubts and fears, one that’s been brewing for years. Or maybe it’s a huge mistake, one that will blow up in our faces like a poorly timed backfire.
But right now, with Cole’s hands on my body and his kiss setting my soul on fire, I don’t have the energy to care.
Is he right? Is this us? Before I can overthink it and let my ever-present doubts cloud the moment, Cole deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips. It’s a silent plea, one I answer without hesitation.
His hands are everywhere, mapping the curves of my body with a hunger that mirrors my own. One hand remains tangled in my hair, holding me steady, while the other roams beneath my shirt, exploring the skin bared by the worn cotton.
A soft moan escapes my throat, a sound I have no hope of containing. I’m drowning in sensations, in the feel of his calloused fingers against my heated skin, the intoxicating scent of him filling my senses. Every touch, every brush of his lips against mine, chips away at the carefully constructed walls around my heart.
He senses my surrender, the way my body arches closer, seeking more of his touch. A low growl rumbles in his chest, vibrating against me, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
“You feel so good, Lola,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot and heavy. “So damn good.”
His words, spoken with a raw honesty that steals my breath away, are more erotic than any practiced phrase. They strip away the pretense, the years of hurt and longing, leaving only the two of us, raw and exposed in the dim light of his garage.
The kiss changes, softens, and Cole’s mouth moves from my lips to trace a path along my jawline. His breath, hot and slightly uneven, sends shivers dancing across my skin. Every nerve ending is on high alert, alive with a yearning I haven’t felt in years.
“Lola,” he breathes, his voice rough with emotion. “Look at me.”
I hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty momentarily eclipsing the desire that thrums through me. Meeting his gaze feels dangerous, exposing, like laying bare the deepest secrets of my soul.
His hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers. His grip is firm yet gentle, a reassurance as much as a command. “Lola,” he repeats, his voice softer this time, coaxing. “Please.”
Slowly, tentatively, I lift my gaze to meet his. The intensity in his eyes, a mixture of desire and vulnerability, steals my breath away. It’s the look of a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to claim it. But it’s also the look of a man who’s terrified of shattering something precious.
For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe that “something precious” might be us. Then reality crashes back, cold and unwelcome, like a bucket of ice water over the embers of desire.
“This, us, before we go any farther, I need you to know that I didn’t do what you think I did back in high school,” Cole says, his voice barely above a whisper.
His words are like a punch to the gut. My body locks up, every muscle screaming in protest as I shove him away. The force of it surprises both of us. Cole stumbles back, his eyes wide with hurt and confusion.
“Thanks for reminding me,” I spit out, my voice thick with anger and a betrayal that cuts deeper than I ever could have imagined.
I shake my head, disgusted with myself for even momentarily falling for his charm, his touch, and the way he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. I’ve been such a fool.
“I didn’t do it, Lo. I swear to you. It wasn’t me who called the cops.”
His denial is met with a humorless laugh. It claws its way up my throat, raw and ragged.
“You freaked out after I kissed you!” I practically scream the words, the years of pent-up hurt and resentment finally bubbling over. “You said I shouldn’t have been there with you and your friends. Then the cops show up, and you want me to believe it wasn’t you?”
The memory, vivid and humiliating, floods back. I was a couple of years younger than Cole, a na?ve sophomore with a desperate crush on the senior racing star. I saw the pink in his cheeks when I kissed him, the flash of panic in his eyes. He was embarrassed. I embarrassed him. And he made me pay for it.
“I want you to know that I was bullied those last years of high school because of you!” I’m yelling now, the words tumbling out in a torrent. “I was never invited to any parties, never had any real friends. They labeled me a narc!”
I’m out of breath by the time I stop yelling, my chest heaving with emotion. It’s like I’m back in high school and being treated like a pariah all over again. As if high school wasn’t hard enough as a teenage girl, I was also public enemy number one. The hurt lingers like a festering wound that never healed.
“It wasn’t me,” he repeats, his voice firm.
“It had to be! You were the only one who had my brother’s number! You called my brother to come and drag me out of that party while his cop buddies busted up the rest of it.”
The accusation hangs in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Cole’s expression hardens, his jaw clenching.
“Why would I do that when it was my fucking party?” he demands, his voice rising in anger.
“I don’t know!” I shout back, tears pricking at my eyes. “Maybe because you hated me all along!”
The words hang in the air, ugly and desperate. Even as I say them, I know they sound ridiculous. Cole Lawson hating me? It makes no sense. And yet...
“I never hated you, Lo. I loved you!”
His declaration, raw and ragged, steals the air from my lungs. He lunges forward, and before I can even process his words, his lips crash back down on mine. Then, they’re gone, and he’s retreating like his ass is on fire, and I’m left reeling. He loved me?