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“No.”

“What is it?”

I turn my head then. She’s too close.

“It’s a you thing,” I say.

Her mouth softens. Her eyes move over my face as if she’s trying to decide whether to believe me.

Then her gaze drops lower. To my lap.

There is no hiding it.

Her breath changes. My hand curls once against my thigh.

“Maggie.”

“I know,” she says.

But she doesn’t look away. She looks like she wants to put her hands on me.

And then she does.

Her palm settles on my thigh. High enough to make my whole body pull tight. Not on my cock. Not yet. But close enough that I feel the heat of her hand through my trousers, close enough that my blood moves hard and stupid and direct.

I look at her. She looks back.

There is no uncertainty in her face now. Only nerves.

And want.

Her fingers flex under mine.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

She swallows. “Yes.”

I lean in. I kiss her softly, intending to keep it that way. That intention dies the moment her mouth opens under mine. She makes a small sound, almost swallowed, and my hand moves to her jaw. Her skin is cold from outside, warm beneath it. I tilt her face up and kiss her harder.

She comes toward me immediately. No hesitation.

Her hand slides farther up my thigh, and my cock kicks against the seam of my trousers. I make a sound against her mouth that is closer to a warning than a groan.

Her fingers press in.

I break the kiss long enough to breathe. “Careful.”

“No.”

Fuck.

I kiss her again. She tastes like spice and rain and so fucking sweet.

Her hand is still on my thigh, braver now, and mine goes to her waist, then under her coat, pulling her closer across the seat.

Not close enough. Nowhere near.

The car turns sharply and she tips into me. I catch her, palm spread across her back. Her body fits against mine for half a second, soft and warm and real, and the little sound she makes nearly finishes my restraint.