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“Everything’s connected,” she whispers.
“Come closer.” I reach down to adjust the seat but it’s already pushed to its limit to accommodate my long frame.
Her hand remains on my shoulder, but she’s stopped rubbing. “Come closer, where? Your lap?”
I pat my thigh. “Sure.”
A hint of a smile flickers over her lips. She crawls to my side, her head carefully tilted to the side to avoid bumping it, and awkwardly hovers over me for a few seconds.
My heart hammers hard enough to fill the cab.
I clamp my hands over her hips and pull her into my lap. The weight of her feels so right against me.
“There. That’s better.” I’ve been aching to have her close all night.
She rests her hands at my shoulders, her thumbs moving in circles against my neck. A pleasurable sensation, bordering on ticklish. I can’t ask her to stop though. Love the way she touches me.
My entire body enjoys having her heat soaking into me. A little too much. I shift, trying to relieve the gathering pressure in my groin.
She gasps and pushes her hips forward, pressing right into my growing erection.
“Easy,” I groan. Fifteen years of pent-up frustration. She does that again, I might explode all over the truck.
I run my hands over her thighs and hips.
“Grayson?” She rests her palms on my cheeks. I lift my gaze to her questioning eyes. “Why won’t you kiss me?”
Because I’m afraid I won’t stop.
Instead of answering, I cup the back of her head and drag her closer. Her soft lips yield perfectly. The first taste of my sweet girl unchains my soul. Craving more, I thrust my tongue between her lips and gently stroke, overdosing on her taste.
Drugs have never been an issue for me, but I could easily get addicted to the rush of kissing Serena.
Her whole body melts into mine. Her hands slide to my chest, her fingers twisting in my shirt like she’s holding on for dear life.
All my senses vibrate with the need for more. I wrap my arms around her completely, molding our bodies together.
She moans into my mouth and wiggles closer. I squeeze her tighter and deepen the kiss.
Jesus, I haven’t made out in a car with a girl since I was in high school. But my body hasn’t forgotten how. If I concentrate on her and shut out everything else, I can almost recapture the same thrill and forget the lifetime of baggage weighing me down.
Her hands drop to my waist and tug at my belt.
I reach down and pry her fingers loose. “Not here. Not in the truck.”
She pushes her lips into the sweetest pout. “Do you want to come home with me?”
More than anything. But if I get up in her personal space, I might not leave. I cup her cheek and rub my thumb against her bottom lip. “Not tonight, buttercup.”
Through the dim lighting, I catch pink spreading over her cheeks. Shit, this is the second time I’ve turned her down. No wonder she had so many questions.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, pushing away from me.
“Stop,” I order.
She freezes.
“It’s not that I don’t want to.” Fuck, I want so much from her. But I’m also enjoying discovering her and rediscovering myself. Our first frantic kisses. First touches. I want to savor every memory and sensation. Burn them into my soul. My curiosity and desire to know her—really know her—rages harder than my lust.
“Then why?” Her voice is so fragile—scared even.
“Because when I finally have you, you’re going to need a few days to recover.”
She chuckles.
“I’m not kidding.”
For whatever reason, that seems to reassure her instead of scare her away. She falls against me, wrapping her body around mine the best she can in the tight space. I stroke my fingers through her hair. So soft, silky, and thick. I want to bury my face in it and shut out the rest of the world.
“Grayson?” she mumbles against my shoulder. “What do you want me to call you? Would you rather I use your road name?”
It’s nice to be called by more than a number, or my personal favorite, “inmate,” again. “I like the way you say my name. Gray is fine too.”
“Okay.”
“Anything but ‘sir,’” I add. “I already feel too damn old around you.”
She laughs softly. “Yes, sir.”
“Smart aleck.” I slide my hands down and squeeze her ass. Such a perfect handful.
When she doesn’t release me, I pat her behind again. “Come on, buttercup. It’s almost turn-into-a-pumpkin o’clock.”
She pulls away and tilts her head to the side. “Why buttercup?”
I trace my finger along her jawline. “Those little yellow flowers are one of the first signs of spring. And that’s how you make me feel. Like my heart and body are thawing after a long, bleak winter.”
Her lips part but she sits there staring at me without saying a word.
I shift my gaze to the window. Maybe that was too much information to share too soon. Normally, I believe in economy of words. Speaking freely is a good way to wind up in trouble.
