The Player Next Door

“You looking for someone?” Shane asks.

“Not really. I don’t know.”

His face is inches away from me. “No one’s going to bother us here,” he says softly before leaning in to kiss me. His mouth tastes of red licorice, his lips still cold from the Coke he just sucked back. I’m hit with the most powerful wave of déjà vu I’ve felt yet.

Except before, his affection was far less restrained. Maybe it was the wild teenage boy in him that kissed deeply from the start, his tongue always diving in to coax mine into a sultry dance. Now, he merely licks the seam of my mouth before he pulls back to rest his forehead against mine. “You’re worried about the school, aren’t you?”

“A bit,” I admit. Despite how many times I tell myself I’m not breaking any rules. “What if Bott magically appears again tonight and sees this?” I’m only half joking.

“I can’t see Bott coming out to the drive-in to watch Saw,” he says with a chuckle.

“No, I guess not.” I smile sheepishly.

His fingertips skate along my cheek. “But why don’t we save this for when we’re behind closed doors and just watch the movie.”

In my peripheral version, I see blood-soaked hands. I cringe. “This is a horrific movie, Shane.”

“Do you want to leave now?” he asks, and I see the sincerity on his face.

Behind closed doors with Shane would be ideal, given the growing throb between my legs. But he did go to all the effort of planning this. “No, it’s okay. I like being here with you again. Plus, I think someone might kill you if you turn this beast on right now.”

“Okay, how about this? Why don’t I watch and”—he gently guides my face back into the crook of his neck where it was moments ago—“you go back to hiding in here.”

“I always did like it in here,” I purr, dragging the tip of my nose across his jawline.

His breath hitches.

I can’t help myself any longer. I brush my lips against that sexy ridge of his collarbone.

He releases a shaky sigh that stirs my blood. “Yeah, I remember. Just don’t leave any marks on my neck like you used to, or I’ll never hear the end of it from the guys.”

“You mean, like this?” I nip at his flesh playfully but follow it up with a soothing lick.

Beneath my palm, Shane’s heart thumps harder and faster. “No, you can keep doing that,” he says in a husky voice.

We try to settle back into movie-watching positions. I’m definitely not paying attention as I covertly nip and lick and kiss his neck, his collarbone.

I’d be surprised if Shane is keeping up with the plot either. The hand that was settled on my hip has disappeared beneath the woven plaid blankets and has slowly, inch by inch, worked its way up the front slit of my dress, toward my panties. Sexy ones that I chose specifically for tonight, just in case.

Slick heat between my legs grows as I ache for his touch again. I shift my hips to give him better access—and the green light, which he takes with no hesitation. After a few teasing strokes across the silky material, his warm, strong fingers curl beneath. He lets out a soft curse as he slides his touch over my sensitive, wet flesh, dipping inside.

“Kissing you always does that to me.” I stroke my hand over his chest, memorizing its hard curves. That’s not entirely true. Just being around Shane gets me hot and bothered.

“It’s probably good you never let me in there, then. I don’t think you would have ever gotten me out.” His fingertip work against my clit in slow circles as he slides his hips down in the seat.

I don’t have to look to know that he has a raging hard-on. Back when we were seventeen, this was the point where my fingers would crawl beneath his shirt and trace a teasing line back and forth across taut abdomen, just above his belt. Sometimes I would cup his swollen length, give it attention. But I’d go no further, no matter how badly I wanted to unbuckle his pants and fill my hand with him. A lot of my restraint had to do with us never being alone. I was not going to pull a Dottie Reed and put on a show for anyone.

But we’re not seventeen anymore, and two minutes of his skilled strokes have evaporated my fears of being caught making out with my student’s father at the drive-in.

I slip my hand under the blankets to size up the hard ridge along the front of his jeans.

“Fuck, Scarlet.” He looks at me with bright, pleading eyes.

“Go back to watching the movie,” I command softly, resting my head in the crook of his neck as if I’m doing the same. But beneath the cover of the woven blankets, my dexterous fingers are unfastening his belt and working the top button and zipper down. I slide my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and wrap my hand around his impressive length. I sigh with satisfaction at the hot, velvety-smooth skin finally in my palm. A bead of sticky moisture sits on the tip. I brush against it with the pad of my thumb.