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The fact I’m on my knees on the floor of my garage, ass in the air, dress riding high as I take a closer look at his motor doesn’t help.
I grab the light he offers and hold it between my shoulder and ear. There. Thank God. Relief rolls through me as I spot the problem. Maybe I’d be able to escape from him before I do something stupid like invite him back to my apartment for a nightcap.
“Ah. Here we go. The voltage regulator has burned through. Probably from coming into contact with the front fender on your long trip. And the clutch, well, from the looks of it that has failed to disengage. I’ll have to order the parts tomorrow. Everything is closed now.”
I speak to the bottom of his bike, not daring to look at him. He squats next to me. “How long will that take?”
That heated masculine rumble of his voice sounds smooth as leather. Deep.
It lights something inside me I haven’t felt for another man ever and it scares me. How can this man arrive in town and not an hour later have me wanting him? I spend all day with bikers, truck drives and farmers. And nothing. Not a zing or simmer inside me. But Mr. Beard and Muscles pushes through my door, offers to carry my pies and I trip down memory lane so hard I’m biting my tongue from offering him a bed.
To make it worse, I know I’m blushing. How could I not be with the roaring fire inside me right now?
I fight the urge to moan out loud as his scent of pine and warm male send my senses into a tailspin. “They’ll probably get here in three days because of the weekend.”
I barely manage to keep my voice on an even keel.
He pushes to his feet, leaving both of my sides wide open.
I can make my great escape now. Fresh air goes a long way and I needed gallons of it. And a drink. Old school crushes and long Autumn nights call for a whiskey sour. Spiked apple cider sounds good too.
I go to stand but I’ve been on my knees so long I’ve lost feeling in my right leg.
I stumble forward, landing over the seat of his bike, but before the bike or me can hit the ground, thick, strong arms come around me, pinning me to a hard chest.
He turns me around and like this, with our chests pressed together, me bent over his bike and him over me, if anyone were to walk in, it would look a tad bit peculiar.
Or, down right naughty.
I press my oil-covered hands to his cream-colored tee, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. Those dark, piercing eyes lock on mine and neither of us can look away.
“Thanks,” I whisper and I know he hears the quiver in my voice because that shit-eating grin of his is back and in full force.
“Don’t mention it.” he purrs, coming to stand between my spread thighs.
“It’s been a while since I’ve held you like this.”
I’m no wilting flower in need of a man, but he sure makes me feel like a delicate freaking daisy.
He slides me to straddle his bike cowgirl style but doesn’t make a move to give me any more space than necessary. His hands hold mine, grease and all.
Which I kind of welcome. Night fell hours ago and Vermont in the Autumn isn’t frigid, but it’s still pretty damn cold.
Goosebumps pebble along my arms and legs and that’s when I notice.
Flaming red fire hits my cheeks.
God, why me? Between the crawling around and twisting to get a good look at all the parts my daddy taught me to check on a bike, I somehow managed to get my dress and all twenty layers of ruffles up around my waist instead of mid-thigh where it belongs.
I wanted Belle and the Beast, but the longer this day drags on the more I feel like Cinderella after the carriage turned back into a pumpkin.
It is wishful thinking he doesn’t notice. Hot eyes drag up my body and land on mine, and I know that look. Remember it. It’s a miracle I made it through our dating days with my hymen intact. He said he would wait for me and vowed to never press the matter. And true to his words, he did. But that didn’t mean we didn’t do some heavy petting and if I can read the smoldering look in his eyes, he’s recalling those moments too.
A rough, warm hand comes to my thigh and when he leans in, his lips barely a whisper from mine, I don’t back away.
No.
Not me.
