“All the ones that mattered were wrong.” He leans against the gleaming hood, putting his hands into his pockets.
My gaze skims the polished metal, because looking at Liam is painful, in the best and worst way.
“You like her?” A hint of pride finally enters his voice, and it infuses the interaction with our usual ease. Well, not completely, but it’s safe to talk about the car.
We’re doing so well together when we avoid critical conversations, after all.
“I love her, but I don’t understand.” Gently, I brush the shiny surface.
The air is filled with anticipation. Of what? I wish I knew. It excites me.
Like for the first time in my life, control doesn’t matter. What matters is closeness. Companionship. Trust.
I don’t know what this place is. Fuck, I hardlyknow who this man is. Yet being here with him is comforting.
I have a deeply rooted appreciation for vintage cars, but that’s not the reason why this moment feels important.
“I wanted to show you…” He lets out a long sigh. “To show you what I like to do when the world gets too heavy. When I need to think. When I want to lose myself.”
The confession is awkward. Probably not because of what he’s sharing, but because heissharing. Period. And suddenly, it is clear why he invited me here.
This is an intimate gesture. A show of trust. Of letting me into his world. For real.
Not the carefully curated version he unleashed on me before, when he was controlling the agenda.
It’s not an empty gesture. And he doesn’t even understand how this particular hobby unravels me. I will have to show him later.
“Being here suits you. More than a boardroom. You look happy here.” I smile at him.
“I feel more myself here. A corporate career has never been my dream.” He tilts his head, studying my reaction.
“But?” I frown. “Why is this only a hobby?”
He shrugs. “I guess I never allowed myself to pursue what I wanted. The revenge plot and all that.”He chuckles humorlessly. “Perhaps now I can rid myself of the corporate shackles.”
“And polish a vintage car?” I grin, trying to bring some levity.
He reaches for my hand and pulls me to him. I collapse against his solid chest while he steadies me between his legs. “Yes, Thunder, and polish cars.” He grins back.
“Okay.” I chuckle, wrapping my arms around his neck. “So not just this Bentley?”
He kisses my lips, but it’s a chaste kiss, and I stifle a moan when he removes his lips way too quickly.
“She knows her cars.” He humors me, but there is a sense of respect behind the jab. “I polish them, right after I strip them into parts, down to bare metal, cleaning them by hand.” He kisses my neck, and I tilt my head to give him access, his mouth already sending minor explosions down my spine.
“Occasionally, I replace components.” He continues kissing my skin down the clavicle, his hands heavy on my hips. “Only when absolutely necessary. I respect original craft too much for that.”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me. Say you tune the engine by the sound of it, and you can have your way with me,” I tease.
He stops kissing me, and before I understand what’s happening, he lifts me, pivots us, and plants myass on the hood. He whips out his phone, swipes a few times, and shows me a photo.
“This is how she looked when I got her.”
I stare at a picture of a banged-up almost-wreckage. Suddenly, the scars, the calluses, the smudges on his hands tell a story. A story I can relate to, because my grandfather used to collect vintage cars.
The scar on his hand… oh my, how was I so oblivious? Romeo had his hand bandaged.
Sometimes, I like to get my hands dirty.When he said it at the sex club, I thought it was playful banter. He was telling me the truth. Not giving details, but not deceiving either.
