Everything feels . . . tingly.
Even this car.
We both move at the same time. And we both move in the same direction?right to the driver’s side of the candy-apple wet dream of a car. In fact, we get there at nearly the same instant. But Asher reaches for the door handle first.
In a flash, I picture exactly what I want. It’s not on my spreadsheet. It’s not sex. It’s just a taste of this life. His life.
I grab his hand, curling mine over it to stop him.
His grin burns off as he turns to meet my gaze, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Maybe from the feel of my hand on his?
A dangerous hope ignites inside me—the wish that I could turn him on.
But I doubt that’s possible. A guy like him wouldn’t want anything to do with a guy like me.
And I should take my hand off his. I really should. But I don’t.
I also don’t ask for what I want.
I tell.
“I’ll drive,” I say. Firm and clear.
Asher’s face registers my command in slow motion. His hazel eyes twinkle, then his lips crook into a curious grin. “Be my guest, Banks.”
At last, I let go of his hand so he can take it off the car handle. When I do, he presses the keys into my open palm, and heat curls through my body from that barest touch.
I swallow roughly, wanting this second to last a little longer, and wanting to escape from it too.
But it ends, as all good things do. We toss our carry-ons into the trunk, then crisscross, Asher heading to the passenger side, me back to the driver’s side.
Once I sink into the beige leather seat and adjust the mirrors, I groan. “Fuck. I can’t drive this car.”
Asher chuckles. “Aw, really? You can’t drive a stick shift? God, the jokes I could make right now.”
Go ahead and make them, pal. I think you’d be surprised.
“I know how to handle a stick, man. I’m talking about the rental agreement. We’d have to add my name to it. Or insurance won’t cover it if anything happens to this hundred-thousand-dollar car.”
His face goes slack with horror. “Oh dear. That sounds awful.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “Taking a risk.”
“It’s not about the risk. It’s about the major pain in the ass that would result from an accident.”
“I wouldn’t want you to have any pain . . . there,” he says, taking the joke to its inevitable, tawdry conclusion.
But I barely hear it. I’ve got a bad case of car envy. So I wave my hand toward the lobby of the car rental. “Can we just go add my name? Or do I have to beg?”
He taps his lip, all serious. “Hmm. Not a bad idea.” Then a smile takes over. “Just fucking drive. Of course I put your name on the rental agreement.”
I pull back, my brow creasing. “You did?”
“Yes, I did. That surprises you?”
“That you’d let someone else drive? Yes.”
Asher just gives an easy shrug. “The last thing I am is a control freak, Banks. Sometimes I like to drive . . . Sometimes I like to be driven,” he says, then leans back against the chair, and shuts his eyes, letting those words linger deliciously in the space between us.
Like he’s taunting me with their double meaning.
Good thing his eyes are closed, since Captain Filthy Mind takes over. My brain goes haywire, images flipping through it at rapid speed.
Control. Giving up control. Wanting it. Letting go of it.
Him pinning me down on the bed. Me pinning him. And then taking. Just taking what I want from him.
I rake my hand through my hair, trying to clear the fog from my brain by zeroing in on the basics of driving.
Keys. Ignition. And one more thing.
I turn around, reach into the back seat for my messenger bag, and grab my prescription shades. I switch them out, then turn on the engine, and the car roars to life with a sexy purr.
As I back up, I return to the last thing he said. “Glad you added my name, since I definitely like to drive,” I say, since I can’t quite resist.
Asher doesn’t answer.
Just smirks.
And off we go.
We cruise past Miami’s collection of man-made islands along the MacArthur Causeway, the robotic voice on the Waze app directing us to Star Island.
It’s a good thing I’m driving, too, because Asher gets sucked into a call with his assistant. From what I can gather, she’s supposed to be uploading some photography for a client.
“The folder is called Banana Hammock Twenty-one,” Asher says.
I glance quickly toward the passenger seat. Is he joking right now?
“What? You have to have fun at work. No, Lucy, not you. Please write this down. The subfolder with the finished edits is called Final. I’d also like you to supply Alt, in case the merchandiser doesn’t agree with my choices. But that’s it. Those are the only two they need. Uh-huh. Right. By cocktail hour, okay? Thanks.”