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Bunny is safe and sound, well taken care of in Boston and Ashely’s garage till I can get to her.
“Yeah. She’s kinda my bestie,” I say. Sad, but true.
“Cars make great friends in my opinion. Especially if they’re reliable.” He smiles that panty-melting, all-American, hot baseball player grin. “You can’t beat a Honda. That thing will easily get you to two hundred and fifty thousand miles. If you ever want something nicer, let me know. You’d look really, really good in a little red Honda NSX.”
“No way. You’ve done too much for me already. My old Honda will be just fine. You just said, she can make it to two fifty.” I add, “Um… she has a name.”
“Really?” he says. “What is it?”
I’ve never told anyone I named my car. It seems silly. But I feel safe with him. “It’s Bunny.”
“Cute. Well, Miss Bunny could make it to three hundred thousand if you baby her. You can always bring her to me for a tuneup when you leave here. I’ll take good care of her.”
A heavy silence stretches between us at the unpleasant thought of my leaving. We both know the time is coming. I know I’m not looking forward to that day. I get the strong sense he isn’t either.
“You know what we need?” He surveys the contents of his fridge. “Wine. Do you like red or white better? I have both.”
“Honestly? I have no idea.” Trevor and I only had money for beer on sale and I was never much of a drinker. “I’ve not really had much of either.”
“Well, if we’re going to be doing favorites, we need to know what wine you like best.” He spends the next few minutes getting glasses out of the cabinet and digging up all the bottles of wine in the kitchen.
I get up to help, but he sits me back down.
I sit and watch, enjoying the view of his ass in those jeans, his shoulders in the T-shirt, and the silly questions ping-ponging back and forth between us.
His favorite animal is the tiger. Favorite car is currently the BMW M5. His team is the Cincinnati Reds. He loves chicken pesto pasta from a café down the street and he’s a red wine person.
Turns out, I like the crisp, fruity tang of pinot grigio best.
After wine tasting, giggly from our conversation, my body loose and warm with wine, we start kissing, me leaning against the kitchen counter. He leaves our kiss to tug at my jeans, pulling them down around my ankles. With my panties. I’m bared to him, my ass now resting against the cold marble.
He kneels down in front of me.
Is he going to do what I think he’s going to do?
Delicious shivers of anticipation shoot through me. I can’t remember the last time a man went down on me. The feel of a hot, wet tongue between my thighs—it’s my absolute favorite. Especially if the man knows what he’s doing.
And I get a very strong gut feeling this man knows exactly what he’s doing. I run a hand through his hair.
His fingers slip up the inside of my thigh. I give a little shudder at his light touch.
“Spread your thighs for me,” he says.
I work past my inhibitions, sliding my feet wider, parting my thighs. He fingers my pussy, playing lazily in my slick juices. My head lolls back. My eyes close. A soft sigh escapes my lips.
It already feels so good.
“You’re so wet,” he says.
I glance down at him. “You seem to do that to me.”
“Leave a puddle on my floor and I’ll have to punish you for it.”
The thought makes me wetter.
He grabs my thighs, his handsome face diving between my legs. “Oh. God.” Yep. He knows what he’s doing. His tongue lashes at my swollen bud, quick, firm caresses, one after the other. Each lick brings me to my toes, my hands grabbing the edge of the countertop.
God, this man is good with his tongue. He’s licking me just right, making circles with his tongue. My ass digs into the marble as I give a moan.
