Dirty Thoughts - Megan Erickson Page 0,16

had to have heard it, because he jerked his hand back. “Uh, didn’t mean to do that.” He scratched the hair that was curling at the nape of his neck. “Sorry.”

She turned a little to face him. They were entering her neighborhood now. They’d pull into her driveway in minutes. “You don’t have to apologize.”

He didn’t look at her, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. “Yeah, but I shouldn’t have touched you. I just . . . ” His voice trailed off.

She stared at his profile as he pulled into her driveway and parked. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and squinted at the one-car garage attached to her house. “Nice place.”

She ignored his attempt to change the subject. She reached and brushed his arm lightly with the back of her hand. “Is this difficult for you? Like it is for me?”

He stared at the emblem in the center of the steering wheel and ran his fingers over it. She waited, unsure if he’d ask her to elaborate.

“There are times,” he said softly, “that I wish I was good at lyin’.”

Her heart sped up until it pounded in her ears, and she swore he’d see it beat through the skin of her neck.

“This is one of those times.” His voice was gravel and grit and regret. He took off his hat and scratched his head and threw his cap into the back of his cab. “It’s hard as hell. And after all these years, I never thought it would be.”

His gaze finally met hers. His pale eyes glowed, reflecting off the light above her garage door. A slash of light cut across the bottom of his face, highlighting the five-o’clock shadow on his jaw. She wondered how that stubble would feel on her face, the soft skin of her belly, between her thighs.

“Cal . . . ” She didn’t mean to reach out, to touch him. What right did she have? Those blue-gray eyes were boring into hers, but they were giving her nothing. And she wanted just one touch, one shot at a connection. He closed his eyes as her palm cupped his jaw and her fingers traced over the hollow of his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and that dimple in his chin.

His stubble was coarse, but the skin beneath was soft, which was how she’d always described Cal himself.

Reluctantly, she pulled her hand back, but Cal’s eyes sprung open, and he grabbed her wrist. She curled her fingers into a fist, inches from his face.

Those steely irises were giving her something now, daring her, and his parted lips were the incentive.

“Jenna.” His growl was a warning. But she didn’t know if he was throwing the caution tape between them or if he was pissed that she’d started to retreat.

She tried to remember what he was like at eighteen. But it was hard to find that impulsive boy in this controlled man. All she knew was that she didn’t want to retreat. She’d only started because she’d thought he wouldn’t appreciate the advance. But what she’d learned in New York was to be clear and firm about what she wanted and, most of all, to go after it.

Jenna uncurled her fingers so the pads brushed his bottom lip. And she gave one decisive nod.

There was a pause, and it was like time stopped for a minute. Jenna didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and she swore her heartbeat slowed to a crawl as she waited for Cal to react to her nod, to her questing fingers on his lips.

And then he yanked on her arm, not enough to hurt but enough to pull her across the bench seat of the tow truck and into his arms.

She didn’t care about her heels or her dress. She didn’t give a shit about any of it, because she was in Cal’s lap, straddling him, her knees on either side of his hips. And his palms were on her face, fingers curling into her scalp and finally . . . oh, finally, his lips were on hers.

Cal could kiss, always could. Just the right pressure with the right texture of those maddening ridges on his lips. But back then, he’d been a boy. He kissed with the intent to move on to the main show.

The Cal she was kissing now was all man. A man who knew what a kiss could do, how it affected a woman. How a kiss was its own skill. And boy, how she loved kissing this