I force myself to stop. The man isn’t going to kiss me just because he had the decency to stop and help a fellow motorist.
“Good with your hands, I mean,” I find myself wittering. “As well as dirty—I mean your hands are dirty.” Gah! Shut up!
“I don’t mind getting a little dirty in the service of a beautiful woman. That’s what you wanted to hear, right?”
“What?” Even as I ask, I’m replaying his answer in my head. He’s suddenly so much closer, and not only is he lovely to look at but he smells lovely, too. Masculine and woodsy, undercut with a hint of spice. Anyway, he smells better than I ought to notice and after manual labour, too.
“You like to play word games.” The timbre of his voice sends a wave of goosebumps across my skin, and a million fireworks explode as his hand finds the curve of my hip. “Teasing and innuendo.”
“B-bantering, yes.” Oh, my. It feels like forever since I was last touched by a man. And it felt nothing like this. I find myself backed up against the car. The space between our bodies is so tiny, he must be able to hear the frantic gallop of my heart.
“Games are fine, but I have this question that I can’t get out of my head.” His hand drifts up towards my hair, and I wonder if he can feel me trembling or if he senses how reckless I feel.
“What is it?”
“Do you really only curse when you’re angry?”
“What else would make me . . .?” My words and thoughts trail away as he anchors his hand at the nape of my neck.
“I stand by what I said. I’m not going to tell you you’ve been hanging out with the wrong kind of man.” His dark eyes linger on my lips before finding mine once more. “I’m going to show you instead.”
2
Fee
The wrong kind of—
My mind snags on his phrasing and the way he’d said the same earlier, but only briefly. Oh, so briefly. Because his eyes are full of intent as I allow him to tilt my head to his satisfaction, my mind becoming as empty as Fred’s trunk. As his lips slant over mine, I find myself sucking in a surprised little gasp at the shock of it. Not that he’d taken me by surprise with his kiss but rather the sheer intensity after just one touch of his lips.
I’ve been kissed before. Of course I have. But in the not quite twenty-five years on this planet, I’ve never been owned by another’s mouth—never been held captive by fingers that tangle in my hair, holding me immobile as a tongue tests and teases—as his tongue tests and teases and tastes. His lips are so full and soft, and his attentions so thorough. I’d wondered what his kiss would feel like, but I hadn’t imagined it might ruin any that follow.
My body begins to yield, shaping itself to his as the moment builds between us. I find myself twisting handfuls of his shirt at his back, anchoring myself to him as he steals my very breath. With one hand still in my hair, his other slips down to cup my bottom. Hard pressed to soft, his deep hum of approval resounds through to my core.
Dust kicks up around my ankles as a car suddenly whips by, the first to pass since I’d pulled over—since he’d stopped to help me. The driver’s hand is a constant on the horn as it speeds past us, and we spring apart in shock like a couple of teenagers caught feeling each other up at a bus stop.
My head follows the rapid progress of a red-coloured Renault, my cheeks no doubt turning the same colour at the blur of lewd actions of its passengers.
My rescuer’s hand makes a V at his chin, his forefinger idly swiping his bottom lip. “Fucking kids.” His expression seems boyish almost. The bulge in his pants not so much.
I dip my gaze to the ground because my, oh my, that certainly seems like a handful . . . or a whatever-full, depending on where you’re thinking of putting it.
Decisions, decisions, giggles the little devil on my shoulder who sounds suspiciously like Charles. And then I realise while thinking of the stranger’s, ahem, proportions, he’d spoken, and I’d totally missed what he said.
“I’m so sorry. What was that?”
“So, once more for the cheap seats?”
“Even the nosebleed section would still get a good eyeful,” I find myself murmuring, a certain something pulling at my attention again. “I don’t know about cheap seats, but I’m having very cheap thoughts. Oh!” I clap my hands to my cheeks, snapping my gaze to his. “That was so inappropriate. And I’m so sorry. I really don’t know what’s come over me.” His answer is a burst of laughter that’s deep and free and really quite lovely. Encouraged, I turn my palms to the darkening sky and offer a small shrug. “I suppose they do say it pays to advertise.”