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Then they became my protectors.
And now they’re so much more than that.
Dax’s hand on my leg reaches the apex of my thighs, and I spill a small noise into his mouth as he finds my clit through my jeans, pressing hard against it and then backing off, making me buck my hips to chase his touch.
I didn’t even take my damn seatbelt off, and as I try to reach for more of him, wanting to wrap my arms around his shoulders and press our bodies together, the strap pulls to its limits and suddenly tightens, halting my movement with a jerk.
Dax chuckles, the sound low and sweet. “Maybe we should get out of here.”
No. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to let go of the incredible sensations sparking to life inside me. But he’s right. We’re not gonna get very far strapped into the front seats of his car.
I nod, still pressing kisses to his full lips. “Yeah.”
He draws back and reaches for my seatbelt buckle, pressing it and tugging on the strap to release me.
The green in his eyes seems even brighter than usual, all but eclipsing the blue, as he unbuckles his own seatbelt and slides out of the car. I watch him walk around the front and let him open my door for
me. I’m not the type who usually needs help getting out of a car, but when he extends a hand down to me, I take it. My legs feel a little wobbly as I stand up, and I’m a little lightheaded, as if I’ve got too much oxygen flowing to my brain.
I expect Dax to lead me out of the garage toward the house, but instead, as soon as he slams the passenger door shut, he picks me up and deposits me on the hood of the car.
Thanks to spending the entire winter parked in a garage, there’s no snow on the hood, but the metal is cool on my ass, even through my jeans. The contrast between the cold steel and the heat burning through me makes me gasp, and Dax steps back, cocking his head as he takes in the sight of me perched on his Mercedes.
It’s not like I’m a perfectly tanned bikini model posing tits-up on the hood of a Firebird—I’m dressed in my winter coat, my hair is messy, and my cheeks are flushed from cold and arousal—but Dax looks at me like I’m something even better.
When he steps forward and takes hold of the zipper on my coat, I feel my breath catch against my will. It’s just a fucking coat, for crying out loud, but as he tugs the zipper down, revealing the soft blue sweater I’m wearing underneath, I feel like a present being unwrapped.
I rub my thighs together, doing my best to remain still as he slips his hands inside the jacket, brushing his palms over my breasts as he pushes the thick outer layer out of the way. He tugs it off my shoulders and down my arms, laying it on the hood behind me.
Fuck.
I take off this much when I get home from school. Only my face and hands are bared, everything else still covered with fabric, but I still feel practically naked.
“Dax,” I whisper, reaching for him with desperate hands. “Let me—”
He allows me to pull off his coat, bracing his hands on the hood on either side of me as I work his zipper down, dropping his head to nip at my lips.
When his coat falls to the floor, he stops teasing my lips, swooping in to kiss me with the same desperate ferocity he did in the car. His hands splay across my cheek and jaw, his fingertips sliding into my hair as he leans over me, draping his body over mine as I fall back onto the hood. My feet find purchase on the front bumper, and I press against it to lift my hips, needing him to continue what he started.
To put his fingers back on me. His mouth on me.
When our kiss finally breaks, Dax’s hair is disheveled from my greedy, grasping fingers. His full lips are swollen and flushed, and his eyelids droop with lust. He drops his head again, brushing his nose against the space where my neck and shoulder meet as he draws in a deep lungful of air.
He’s… he’s smelling me.
The thought makes a surge of wetness flood my panties, makes my pussy ache. His own sweet clove scent clings to his Henley and his warm, sculpted body. I close my eyes, letting it drift over me. I don’t know what I smell like to Dax—maybe a little like the pomegranate body wash I love—but I know what I want to smell like.
Him.
I want his skin on mine, his body cradling mine, inside mine, until we’re so fully bound together that his spicy scent seeps into my pores. I want to smell him on me tomorrow, a tangible reminder of this moment right now.
He takes another hit, breathing in once more like I’m his favorite drug in the world, then his tongue flicks out to taste me.
Do I taste the way I smell?
Maybe he likes this even better, because Dax doesn’t stop. The tip of his tongue trails over my collarbone and down the center of my chest until he hits the neckline of my sweater. His hands are already gathering the hem of the fabric, and I arch my back as he pulls it off me in one swift movement.
Then his mouth is back on me again, like he can’t bear to miss a second of it. He drags the flat of his tongue over the swell of my breast, then pulls the fabric of my bra down with his teeth. The garage is heated, but it’s not as warm as the house is, and my nipple peaks instantly in the chilly air, going so hard and rigid that it’s almost painful.
