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The words—Truckers Do It on The Road—added insult to injury. He shook his head again, unable to stop staring at her shirt, her breasts… He blinked, forcing his gaze up. Parted lips, dazed eyes, and flushed cheeks weren’t much better.
“We’re not doing this.” His words lacked conviction. Because he—his wolf—really fucking wanted to do this. Her. Now. Hard. Until they were too tired to move or breathe or think. He swallowed, hands fisting against the urge to reach for her.
She nodded, still pressed against the tile, her breath still powering out of her, making her breasts shimmy and bounce in the most distracting ways.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, ignoring the wolf and turning back into the shower. He blasted the cold water, spewing obscenities out long and loud until he’d cleared his head and his rock-hard erection eased.
He didn’t look at her as he turned off the water, dried off, or dressed. His body was all too willing to respond to her. “Finn should be calling soon.” Just saying his name helped Mal shift gears from horny to pissed. Pissed was better.
She didn’t say anything.
He glanced at her, pulled her new pink hoodie from the bag and tossed it to her.
She caught it.
“Put that on.” He nodded. “We’re trying to avoid attention.”
She glanced down at her shirt, frowning. “It’s your fault.”
He groaned. She was in the state she was in because she wanted him. And he was fucking walking away. His wolf was having a fit.
“I didn’t pick out the shirt,” she added, irritation replacing hunger.
He chuckled. Right, the shirt. “Just…cover up.”
She tugged on the oversize hoodie, pulling up the excess material. “It’s big.”
Meaning she was drowning in material and her nipples weren’t on display. Good. He was breathing a little easier when he pushed open the door. A quick look both ways told him it was clear, so he waved her forward. She hurried by him, leaning away when she squeezed through the doorway.
There was an old guy with a bag under his arm waiting for the shower. He looked Olivia up and down and shot Mal a wink. Mal ignored the urge to punch him and led Olivia back through the truck stop and into the diner.
The waitress nodded at them as they sat at the table they’d vacated. But once they were seated, Olivia sort of slumped into the booth—bleary-eyed and agitated. “Try to sleep,” he said.
“Not
tired,” she said, stretching her arms out in front of her on the table and yawning.
He shook his head.
“I thought you said we needed to talk?” she reminded him, stretching her arms over her head then rolling her neck. “You never said if it was a good talk or a bad talk.” Her small smile was teasing. “Are you breaking up with me?”
Mal couldn’t stop his smile.
But then she was staring at his mouth and he knew, immediately, what she was thinking—and wanting.
“Want something?” the waitress asked, making them both jump.
“Coffee,” he said.
“Same.” Olivia nodded and tugged the bowl full of creamer and sugars toward her. She started stacking the creamer cups.
Mal watched her fingers, the slight tremor of her hands, how her hazel eyes focused on her work. He liked watching her, her laugh and smile. “Finn’s the Alpha,” he said. “He started it all.”
She stared at him, turning a creamer cup over and over. “How? He”—she glanced behind her—“bit you?”
He nodded.
“You guys weren’t born this way?” she asked.
