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My telepathic plea seems to work because she pulls at my T-shirt. “Let’s go, Cowboy.” Louder, she calls out, “She drives like a dream, Jerry. The 350 was definitely the right choice.”
He waves but answers, “I’m gonna tell Marlene you said that.”
Erica smiles, and we keep moving toward her car. If we were in my truck, I’d find the nearest dark road and pull her into my lap. In her car, there’s definitely no room for that, though my mind doesn’t stop trying to figure out a way.
The drive to the garage is slower than Erica’s race pace, but we’re definitely well over the speed limit. I don’t give a shit because I’m in just as much of a hurry as she is.
Chapter 17
Erica
There’s something no one ever talks about with racing—how sexual it all is. The purr of the engine, the vibration of the seats beneath you, the barely controlled power, it’s all such a turn-on. Or at least it is for me.
When Brody asked me if I was ready to go, a tiny whisper of doubt had tried to worm its way into my heart. He doesn’t want you here, doesn’t want you racing. But then I saw the sexy promises in the dark depths of his eyes, felt the fire licking along his skin, and realized I was so wrong. He didn’t want me to leave. He just wanted me. As in, if I’d said no to leaving, he’d have happily turned me around, bent me over the nearest front bumper, and fucked me right there until we both screamed.
In an instant, my doubts evaporated like smoke, leaving only hope and hunger.
I’m driving as fast as I dare back to the garage, and almost before I can turn Foxy off, Brody and I are out of our seats and leaping toward each other. We meet in front of the hood, his hands going to my ass and lifting me easily. My legs wrap around his waist as our lips smash together, devouring one another.
“Goddamn, you’re a fucking beast behind the wheel. So sexy, Erica.” The words are stilted and murmured against my lips.
“It doesn’t scare you that I do that?” I whisper, throwing my head back and closing my eyes as he kisses a line of heat along my neck. Even now, I’m challenging him, testing his reactions, and expecting him to bail or go into lecture mode.
“Terrified me, but it was worth it to see that smile on your face when you climbed out. Gonna make you smile like that for me.”
I’ll have to remember to revel in the sweetness of that later because he lays me back on the hood of Foxy and I forget everything but how I feel as Brody leans over me, looming and large. The car’s warm beneath me, keeping me from chilling as Brody shoves my shirt up and runs his callused hands along my sides.
“Do you even own a bra?” he growls.
“You complaining?” Arching my back, I silently demand for him to touch my breasts. Finger, tongue, mouth, any of them will do.
“Never. Complimenting.”
The explanation is enough as he gives me what I need, his finger and thumb rolling one nipple while his mouth suckles the other. I weave my hands into his hair, scratching at his scalp before holding him to me, not letting him go as I demand more. He nibbles lightly, and I cry out and arch harder. He works my breasts back and forth, sucking one and then the other, never letting one feel neglected though his hands work their way to my waistband, undoing my jeans and shoving them down along with my panties. I manage to kick them both over my boots, leaving me in a rather oddly incomplete outfit, but I don’t give a shit.
Brody pulls off my breast with a pop and stands tall. He looks me over and I let him, not shy in the least. I know I’m not for everyone. I don’t have big tits or an ass they write songs about, but my body is strong and I’m confident in my own skin. And that’s sexy.
“Beautiful, Lil Bit.”
The soft and honest confession unexpectedly pierces my armor, reaching dangerously close to my heart. I’m bitchy and prickly, mean and hard, and so defensive my picture’s probably beside the definition in the dictionary. But Brody finding me not just sexy, not just a hot fuck while we’re riding on endorphins, but beautiful? “Thank you.”
There’s a burning in my eyes I don’t like, so I blink and reach for him.
Brody gathers a handful of T-shirt behind his head, pulling it over in one swoop, like my own private magician. I expect him to drop the shirt to the floor, maybe to the hood if it’s a favorite, but he wads it into a ball and lifts my head to slip it underneath like a pillow. Sweet, sexy, romantic . . . and not the rough fucking on the hood of my car that I want. “Condom?”
