Quick Study - By Gretchen Galway Page 0,7

her ear, felt her tremble under his touch.

“I don’t drink coffee,” she whispered.

He slid his arm around her waist. “Hate the stuff.”

“I want you.”

He groaned into her hair and pulled her hard against him. “Let’s go inside.”

Bonnie’s knees locked, trying to hold herself upright when her body wanted to collapse, naked and limp, in his arms.

He was in that black leather again, and smelled like cinnamon and sex and that cologne she hadn’t remembered consciously but now was making her wet just from breathing near him. She hadn’t been able to make herself continue the social research she’d planned, even though she was already months past her thesis deadline. The idea of touching anyone but him turned her cold. Until she got this guy out of her system, she’d never be able to approach any other guy with a clear head.

What had he done with his tongue? She’d expected a kiss, but that lick—like an animal marking his mate, his prey, then waiting with that damn male confidence for her to follow.

“We can’t,” she said.

His eyes were black, gazing at her without blinking. “Why?” he asked, his voice like gravel.

He thought she was rejecting him. As if she could. “I have roommates.”

“I don’t.” He hooked his arm around her roughly to lead her down the sidewalk.

“Where—”

“My place. In Lafayette. It's just down 680. Ten minutes, max.”

They were going to do it at his place. He was so sure of himself. So natural, to invite—no, compel—a stranger to have sex with you. “You never even told me your last name.” Though she had found it out from her neighbor, that and a few other things, or she’d never be running off with him now.

“Ash,” he said. “Paul Ash. I'm thirty-two, grew up in Portland, have one sister, four nephews, one horny God-fearing brother-in-law, two parents, and a career in software engineering.”

This speech poured out in a low monotone near her ear while he guided her down the sidewalk, the whole time his hand was exploring her lower back, vertebra by vertebra, until his thumb was hooked under the band of her thong. Vaguely reassured by his biography (which matched the gossip she’d pulled out of Shannon), Bonnie let herself focus on the maddening sensation of lace and elastic underwear being pulled tight into the crack of her ass with each step. She stumbled over a patch of broken sidewalk.

“Easy.” He smiled down at her with that grin that had devastated her at the gate minutes before. Confident but self-mocking. Hot.

He probably practiced it in the mirror, and knew what it did to women. This was just a quickie to him, she didn’t need to feel guilty about not telling him about the research project—

The car was an older Prius, dusty powder blue and dented on one side, but clean. Not what she expected. “This is your car?”

His grin wavered. “Problem?”

“Harley in the shop?”

“Afraid so.” His cocky smile came back in full force. His hand lingered at her ass, his warm fingers tugging the thong upwards in an increasingly hard, kinky rhythm as he leaned down and brushed his lips in a feather-light kiss across the bridge of her nose. “Nice freckles,” he whispered, then released her and nudged her into the passenger seat.

Her underwear, a narrow band of thin stretchy nylon, was wet and slippery inside her jeans. As the car vibrated and rolled over the roads, her clit began to complain from teasing and neglect. She wiggled in her seat, going mad with the growing ache. “Ten minutes?”

He gave her a fast, wolfish glance, then reached over and slid his hand between her legs. “A woman like you shouldn’t have to wait.” His fingers wrapped around her left thigh, then edged up to the tight seam of her jeans, rubbing softly at first, then suddenly gripping her mound between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing roughly through the denim.

“God,” she gasped.

“Unzip your pants.” He wasn't looking at her. Turning onto the freeway, checking over his shoulder, merging.

“Are you sure that's safe?” She heard herself ask the question and groaned inwardly. Fuck safe.

“Reverse commute direction.” He accelerated to pass a Wal-Mart semi that loomed over the road, the cab certainly high enough for the driver to see right down through the sedan’s untinted window into her lap. “I want to taste you,” he said.

Desire flared hot in her veins. “How are you going to—” she began, but the warning voices in her head were growing weak and unreasonable. “Never mind,” she