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Until I taste us both.
He pulls away.
We’re both still panting when he nudges me until my sluggish brain gets the message and I crawl off him. Back to my own seat. He pulls up his pants and drags his hand through his hair. He clutches the door handle. His gaze finds mine.
The heat and madness of the moment have dissipated.
“You look me up again, I’ll assume you want to finish what we started,” he says. He sounds harsh. Almost angry.
He’s out of the car without another word. The door slams shut.
The ominous warning rings out in the quiet interior of my car.
Be careful.
Be careful.
Be careful.
But it feels like a promise.
LAKE
I have a raging case of buyer’s remorse.
Sort of like when you buy a house and move in, only to then discover your property is next to the sewage treatment plant, there’s black mold in the walls, and the neighbors cook meth.
That.
Only the opposite.
My house comes sans sewage treatment plants, black mold, and meth.
But somebody threw in a super-hot guy with an awesome dick and the ability to wring out mind-blowing orgasms.
So now you never want to leave the house.
I’m in deep shit, is what I’m saying.
I jerked off Ryker James. In his car. On the side of the street. In front of my apartment building. One nosy neighbor or late-night dog walker away from getting caught.
This is a new low.
The fuck was I thinking?
Hah.
Good one.
I wasn’t. I just acted. It’s what I do. Act first, think second. It’s my motto and the one personality trait I’ve been desperately trying to change for years—clearly unsuccessfully. If anything, I’m getting worse.
The one ray of hope is that this is rock bottom, so the only way is up now.
I just have to stay away from Ryker James.
And I mean, really, how hard can it be?
Impossible.
