“Good.” His lips brushed her temple. “And you know I’d rather rip off my own dick than leave you?”
“That’s...” She eased back and blinked at him for a moment. “That’s very graphic, Dean. But yes. I know that too.”
His entire body stilled. Tensed.
He sucked in a harsh breath, then found the courage to ask. “You trust me?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. Not a flicker of doubt. “Completely.”
His eyes searched hers. “You love me?”
“With every un-sledgehammered atom in my body.”
Exhaling slowly, he grinned down at her. “We gonna fuck in that limo outside?”
“Like those aforementioned macaques.”
He laughed, the sound earsplittingly loud and incandescently happy, then gathered her in his arms and bowed his head to kiss her with insistent passion and the sort of heedless devotion she’d never imagined could be hers.
Even behind her closed lids, rapid flash-bursts created fireworks in her vision. They were clearly the work of Harlot’s Bay’s finest journalist, Sylvia, and her trusty Nikon, or maybe even the crowd of nosy spectators and their cell-phone cameras, but...
Nitpicky pedantry be damned.
Molly would have sworn those joyful pinwheels of light came straight from her heart.
Roughly an hour later, Molly tugged her pants back in place and tipped her head toward a discreet package of wet wipes. “Should we...”
“Yeah.” Karl sighed, then buttoned his own pants and heaved himself up from the back seat. “Be assholes if we didn’t.”
In theory—and in movies—banging in a limo was hot.
In reality...
Actually, yeah, it was still really damn hot. But also kind of painful to middle-aged joints. Not to mention questionable in terms of hygiene, for both themandthe limo driver.
For the poor man’s sake, the least they could do was clean up after themselves.
As she hummed a few bars from “The Wreck of theEdmund Fitzgerald,” they both went to town on the wet wipes and made absolutely sure they hit every relevant interior surface in the limo.
After a minute, she glanced over to where he was scrubbing at her footprint on a window. “Anyone in sight out there?”
By the time they’d finished making out in the gym, Rob had already left the premises, and so had most other reunion attendees, including Sylvia. Even so, Molly and Karl had hustled to the limo and instructed the driver to take them to Karl’s home using both a circuitous route and the maximum legal speed limit, in hopes no one would follow them and take candid photos—or worse, videos—of what they intended to do next.
The windows might be tinted, but the limo’s shocks would never be the same.
“Nope. All clear.” Grumbling to himself, Karl stretched his back, then grabbed another wipe. “Y’know, teen movies never show this sort of shit.”
“To be fair, most teen movies don’t contain the sort of explicit sex we just had, and neither one of us has been a teenager for a very, very long time.” Flopping down on the newly cleaned seat, she took a moment’s break. “Also, teenagers typically have curfewsand very little money. We, on the other hand, had all the cash necessary to pay off the limo driver and keep him away for an hour, even though it’s almost two in the morning.”
“Can’t argue with that.” He flashed her a grin and flopped beside her. “Our forties? Gonna fuckingrule, Dearborn.”
Just the thought of it—ten entire years spent side by side—had her almost giddy with joy. And that was just the beginning.
She laced their fingers together on the damp leather upholstery. “Also our fifties. And sixties. And every other decade we get to spend together.”
He leaned over to give her a brief, hard, very enthusiastic kiss. “Fuckin’A.”
“Fuckin’ A,” she agreed.
