every inch of my skin tingle as he begins a slow perusal of my body. His attention caresses the flare of my hips, meandering along the length of my bared legs in a look that seems to say you have no idea how good I am. How good I can be. A look that causes a very particular kind of ache between my legs.
“Good at the car thing.”
I mentally kick myself for trying to fill the silence, ridiculousness bettering nervousness as I continue to stare at his gorgeously large hands. Despite being covered in grease, road dust, and crud, I long to reach out and touch them. For them to touch me. And I don’t care that he’s looking at me like he has a front row seat to the thoughts running through my head because all I can think about is how I’ve never seen a nose as straight as his or a mouth as expressive. I wonder if he knows how much his mouth gives him away? This is a man who laughs a lot, I can tell. It’s in the way his lips twitch at the corners when he’s trying not to laugh and the fine lines at the sides of his mouth bracketing the full lushness between. But what his mouth doesn’t tell me, doesn’t even hint at, is what it would be like to kiss him. His lips look like they’d be soft, but his kiss? That remains a mystery. Would it be gentle and soft or strong and masterful, or even—
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