The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,92

don’t even bother looking away to try to feign coolness.

There’re no teasing remarks from him. No, he must feel what I feel, because he turns back to the road and reaches his hand out toward me, gripping my thigh and squeezing gently. It’s like he’s saying, Me too, Candace.

And well, it’s probably meant to be a nice little touch, a way for him to show affection, but I haven’t been alone with him in days and my body seems to have a mind of its own. Instead of sitting there nicely, my legs split apart, just an inch.

He notices.

I can see him swallow in my peripheral vision, so I do it again, another little bit so that cool air rushes up between my thighs from his car’s A/C.

I’m still wearing my District uniform, but I’ve taken off the apron. My black skirt makes it so easy for him to slide his hand in and up, not all the way, just enough to tease me into spreading my thighs more.

We come to a red light, and he hits the brakes harder than normal. I turn my head to stare at him, and he’s looking down, between my legs. I reach for the hem of my skirt, watching him the whole time as I start to slide it up…up…up.

I know his windows are heavily tinted; I know because they look just like the windows on Pat’s SUV, and those were done to help shield Logan from prying eyes. Right now, the tint helps shield me. He doesn’t disappoint. His hand follows my skirt as it trails higher, and then he grips my left thigh and tugs so I’m split apart even more on his front seat. I’m wearing silky pink panties, and he must like them because he stares so long the light turns green and a car lays on the horn behind us.

I laugh as he groans and turns his attention back to the road, his hand staying on me.

His fingers dig into my skin when he tightens his grip. City streets whip by us and I know we’re getting closer to his building, but for some reason, I don’t want that. I want to stay here—suspended on this seat with his hand between my legs.

His fingers skate higher, and I grip the edge of my seat, waiting…wanting…hoping. Then the edge of his finger skims my panties, and a lightning bolt of excitement ricochets through me. I must make a little sound because Logan jerks his head toward me, like he can’t help but take me in like this. Then his eyes are back on the road and his hand continues, over the silk, over my skin, brushing, rubbing, teasing.

My eyes flutter closed when he tugs the material aside.

I feel deviant doing something like this. I know it’s bad and improper and loads of other naughty words, but once his fingers touch me and he feels how ready I am for him, I’m no longer responsible for acting decent.

I blink my eyes open when his SUV whips to the left and then down a slope, into a dark car park. We’re back at his building, and my heart starts to hammer in my chest when he takes his hand off me, pulls into his parking spot, and kills the engine.

His seatbelt clicks, then he leans over and undoes mine too. It goes slack across my chest and he’s tugging me up and off the seat. I half-expect he’ll carry me out of the car and up to his flat, but instead, he props me on his lap and leans in to kiss me—hard.

He’s more impatient than I’ve ever seen him, as if that ride home absolutely killed him. He grips the side of my head and his fingers twine through my hair, our mouths staying in sync, tongues licking as we consume each other.

It’s hot and heavy and necessary. It feels absolutely vital that he reach down and gather my skirt up again so it sits high on my waist. Then I reach down for his trousers and start to unzip. I’m fumbling because there’s not much space on his front seat, but he helps me, and together, we unsheathe him.

“Condom, condom. Bloody condom,” I say, looking around his front seat.

“Fuck. I didn’t replace the one we used the other day.”

I could kill him in cold blood right there. How dare he do this to us? We’re right here and we can’t wait, not even long enough to make it up