I nod, understanding her reasoning. “New York kicks ass. That city’s the opposite of dead.”
She gives me another “we both went to Vanderbilt” slap on the arm. “Right?! I’ve lived in small-town Tennessee my whole life. All people do there is work jobs until they die. And most of them don’t ever leave. I didn’t even dare to get a passport until a few months ago. But now, I can’t wait to live somewhere else.”
Her face goes from sad to excited, and her eyes take on a new light as she tells me, “I was looking online, and it’s a whole lot cheaper to fly to places like Paris and Rome from New York than from Tennessee. And I’m real good at saving. Maybe in a year or two, I could actually start traveling the world during my time off—not just going into Nashville to visit my cousin.”
I open my mouth to tell her I’m about to go to Europe myself, but then I stop when I realize that would violate the terms of the bet—the bet I still haven’t fully won.
“Oh, wow, look at me yammering on,” she says, mistaking the reason I’m not responding. “This isn’t how a one-night stand is supposed to go, right?”
“Yeah, usually there’s not so much talking.” Totally true. But for some reason, I feel like an asshole for pointing it out.
She raises both hands to her face and hides behind them with a self-deprecating laugh. “Okay, this is the part where you offer me a glass of something from your dad’s elegant, enclosed wood wet bar so that I stop talking and we can start hooking up.”
I could use a whiskey myself. But I have to tell her, “I don’t let girls drink too much when they’re with me.”
“Why not?”
Instead of telling her the truth, which involves a whole bunch of unsexy legal ramifications and the kind of bad press PR companies can’t fix, I ask, “Why do you need alcohol, Red? You scared?”
I expect her to deny it, but she answers, “Of course I’m scared. I mean, look at you. Who wouldn’t be nervous? You’re really hot underneath all those tattoos. And I really wasn’t expecting to break the one rule I have at the roadhouse and have sex with a biker criminal tonight—hence, all the talking. Too much talking. I can hear that, but I can’t quite figure out how to make myself stop.”
Talking too much has never been a big problem for me, but I instantly know how to solve it for her.
“Red?”
“I know! I know!” She looks up at me with an apologetic wince. “I’ve got to stop. Are you sure I can’t have any of your dad’s alcohol? That would—”
I raise my hand to the zipper of her—really my—jacket and pull it down. And all her words disappear when her breasts fall out, luscious and real.
Leaving me free to say, “Shut up and let me kiss you.”
CHAPTER 8
GRIFF
I grab the open flaps of my jacket and pull her forward to claim another kiss.
But she leans back before I can reach her lips. “Hold on. Do you mind if I take the steering wheel this time?”
Is she yanking my chain? I’ve got hours of blue-ball buildup from imagining all the take-charge shit I would do to her when I finally got her alone.
But the “hell no” doesn’t immediately roll off my tongue.
I’ve got to admit, I'm kinda intrigued by her request. Maybe because no girl has ever asked me to let her drive before. Take a selfie while I’m fucking her from behind? Sure. More than once. Let her take charge? Not ever.
Until now.
Curious about where this is going, I let go of my jacket and give her some room. “Okay, you lead.”
“Yes!” She pumps her fist, her whole face lighting up like I gave her exactly what she wanted for Christmas. “I promise I won’t lose control like I did at the bar. This is going to be so R-rated.”
I’m already regretting my decision. I liked the way she lost control at the bar. Also . . .
“R-rated?” I ask her.
“Never mind. Forget I said that.” She waves both her hands side to side, like she’s erasing the memory of what she just said for me. Then she gets to work.
She’s the one who's topless underneath my open jacket. But there’s something weirdly sexy about the way she enthusiastically pushes my flannel off my shoulders, then reaches for the hem of my tee and pulls it over my head.
Her mouth drops open when she sees all the muscle I’m packing underneath the shirt. “Whoa, look at you!”
I preen more than I should at her admiring tone—and make a note to myself to Apple Pay my personal trainer an extra Christmas bonus to thank him for getting me to this moment.