“Thank you! Finally!” I stand to my feet to bridge the gap between us. “No matter how many times I told Skylar I was dying, she didn’t believe me.”
I slap Elvis on his chest. My whack has a double meaning. I’m annoyed as hell that he told his friend what my gas smells like, but I understand his dilemma. Without an in-depth description, I may have never been found, which means I wouldn’t have had access to the medication I needed to get better.
“I’m WillowI try not to fart on first datesUnderwood. It’s a pleasure to meet you. . .?”
“Danny.” The eccentric blond thrusts his hand toward mine, his greeting delivered with a mammoth smile. “I think you and I are going to be very close friends.”
Elvis looks more petrified now than he did when Dalton told him he’ll be on diaper duty if he didn’t get his lips off his wife earlier today. It was only a peck, but Elvis’s lips lingered long enough Dalton couldn’t help but react.
I’m glad Elvis is uncomfortable because I’m confident Danny is the key to unlocking all his innermost secrets.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Presley
“Can you lose points for performing a lewd act while driving?”
Willow’s wide eyes stray from the road to me. They’re darker than usual with the low hang of her eyelids hiding their sparkle. “I guess it would depend on the charge?” She sounds as unsure as her facial expression. “Why? What lewd act are you willing to lose your license for?”
She rakes down my body, missing the thousands of replies streaming from my eyes. The sexual chemistry bristling between us is so intense, if I could drive without any hands on the steering wheel, I’d have more than just her thigh covered. Danny was great; he made Willow feel at ease all while keeping my career on the downlow, but the guy is a cockblocking motherfucker.
His corny jokes, stories from our high school years, and his ability to always place himself between Willow and me meant that little taste of her mouth I had at the start of our evening was theonlytaste of her mouth I’ve had. I’m dying over here—like seriously dying. This is worse than food poisoning, and I’m nearing months of abstinence since I broke my back. I swear, I’ve never craved something as badly as I’m craving another taste of her mouth.
The sexy moan she released when she grinded down on me stops replaying through my head when her giggle takes its place.
“It’s lucky you asked before leaping.” She nudges her head to my rearview mirror, which shows a decked-out state trooper sedan following closely behind us. “Did you want to test the theory?”
I almost swerve onto the wrong side of the road when she pulls her seatbelt far away from her chest so she can tilt my way. She is inches from the zipper biting my cock. So close, I can picture her hot breaths leaving beads of condensation on the crest of my cock after she whips it out of my pants.
When she arrows down even lower, I really want to say,Willow, don’t be such a fucking tease. Take my dick between those pillowy lips like I’ve been dying to do all day.Instead, I say, “Willow, god damn it, don’t be stupid. I don’t want to be forced to prove my muscles aren’t just for looks when we get arrested.”
Laughing, she pulls back. “People think your muscles are for show?” I lose the chance to answer when she adds on, “I can understand their error. They’re very pretty to look at.” Her shoulder pops up two inches as a lightbulb inside her head switches on. “Oh my god. How did I not think of this earlier? Underwear model?”
“Huh?”
My eyes bounce between hers and my speedo. The trooper is still following us, meaning I’ve got to make sure I keep it under the limit. I’m not worried about a speeding ticket; I just don’t want my cover blown if he’s a 69ers fan.
“Sexy body. Panty-wetting face. You sell undies for a living, don’t you?”
“Undies?”
Her tongue peeks between her teeth as she strives to hold back a grin. “Undies. Jocks. Briefs. Nut-huggers. Trunks. Boxer shorts. Whatever you call them.” She folds one of her ankles over the other before twisting her torso to face me. “You do the seedy, head-sloped-to-the-side grins that make women like me think you lost your cock somewhere between the makeup chair and the photography studio, don’t you? You know, theoh shit, who stole my penis?!expression every magazine in America is running with these days.”
“I’m not an underwear model.”Anymore.
Five years ago, I wore the exact expression Willow mentioned when Lillian forced me to do a shoot with her. The agency wasn’t interested in the fiancée of the top quarterback in the country; they wanted the real deal. With Lillian’s ego at stake, I manned up and did the gig.
Worst decision I ever made.
I don’t care if you’re hung like a donkey, when you’re poked and prodded by over a dozen spectators before being stripped bare in front of an additional thirty people in an air-conditioned room, you’ll have shrinkage issues. Not even Lillian’s playful grind-up had my cock popping up to say “hello.” He was down for the count, preferring to have me paraded around America as if I had a corn kernel for a penis than pretend it was showtime.
That hoopla saw me swearing off underwear gigs for the remainder of my life. Although, I don’t see shrinkage ever being a problem if I were partnered up with Willow. She’s got enough curves for the nation to pay attention to. The photographer would need an extra-wide lens to capture them all.
Jeez, would you listen to me?The pompous head on my shoulders is nearly as big as the one between my legs.
Hating that parts of the man I was when I was with Lillian are creeping out of me, I switch our conversation to something that will help ease the throb between my legs. “I gather dance is a vital part of your life, but what’s your major?”
Willow appears stumped by the quick change in our conversation, but my mention of her first love quickly secures her attention. “It was dance—”
