“Excuse me,” he says, his tone teasing. “I’m here to pick up a suspicious-looking tourist.”
I laugh, the sound bright and giddy in the humid air.
He hops out to toss my bag in the trunk, and I take a second to ogle the way the cabana shirt stretches wide across his shoulders, showing a glimpse of chest. Even though the loose fit hides his love handles, my memory is 20/20. I can’t wait to get my hands on them.
I slide into the passenger seat, welcoming the blast of AC and the cool, smooth leather against my thighs. Safe behind the tinted glass, I pull off my hat, drop it onto the back seat, and gather my curls into a top knot. As he climbs back in, I instinctively glance toward the hotel entrance. “Do you think anyone saw us?”
“No. You’re guud, Loo-nah. But I wouldn’t recommend a career in undercover work.”
My laughter is cut short when his hand cups the back of my neck, his thumb grazing the curve of my jaw. His scent—that heady mix of cedar, clean skin, and earthy spice—wraps around me just as he seals his mouth over mine. It’s not a rushed hello. It’s deep and soulful, sending a thousand sparks skittering down my spine.
“Been waiting all week to do that,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Me too,” I whisper, winding my arms around his neck to pull him back in.
The weeks of pent-up longing—of living in the shadows with nothing but his voice and stolen moments—break open into a flood of heat and light. The car becomes our sanctuary, a private world where our campaigns don’t exist.
We kiss until the air in the cabin turns thin. DK rests his forehead against mine, his breath blowing warmth on my cheeks. “Fuck… I missed you.”
I scratch his beard with my nails, loving the dense rasp of it. “We have the whole weekend to make up for lost time.”
He flashes a provocative grin, then shifts into drive and offers up his hand in an unspoken invitation. I slip mine into his, our fingers interlocking with a familiarity that can’t be measured in time.
As the car fills with amapiano, we resume that natural, fluid rhythm that’s carried us while we were apart. We talk about my farewell lunch, then bounce from topic to topic with no map, just whatever comes to mind. Even in the lulls, with only the music between us, our connection holds.
I watch him across the console—his profile lit by the fading sun, his tatted forearm flexing as his thumb taps against the wheel to the beat. For a moment, I think about what he wants to tell me this weekend. It’s probably tied to whatever happened in D.C. He doesn’t talk much about those years—just that work came first. Everything else didn’t.
I’m anxious to learn more, to get to know him on a deeper level, but right now, I just want this.
“Celebrity trades,” I say. “Whoever you give up to bring someone back has to hurt.”
“Chris Rock for Bernie Mac.”
“You really gonna do Chris like that?” I balk.
“For Bernie? Every day.”
“That’s cold. I’ll go Mariah for Whitney.”
“Too easy. Kendrick Lamar for Prince.”
“Boy, I can’t with you. I love both.”
“You said it had to hurt. Beat that.”
Always up for a challenge, I think about it, wanting to give him a good one. “Miguel for D’Angelo,” I say with a triumphant smirk.
“Now you’re playing for real.”
“I got game,” I tease, then shift toWould You Rather: “Have the best kiss of your life and never be kissed again, or… have a lifetime of mediocre kisses?”
He briefly takes his eyes off the road to glance over at me. “I’ve already had the best kiss of my life. You’ve ruined me for mediocre.”
“Oooh… okay. I love that answer.”
“Just giving you the truth,” he says. “Here’s one for you. Would you rather have an endless supply of fine chocolate and bad sex… or a lifetime of mind-blowing sex and never have chocolate again?”
“Basically, you’re asking me to choose between you and Godiva.”
