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‘Is your sister like you?’
I laugh and shake my head, start circling the car, taking in every angle, and feel him watching me.
‘Not particularly; she loves being a home-maker, a mum, and she’s great at it.’
‘Not for you though, hey?’
Another shake of my head, my eyes all for the wheels as I consider his words, the old pang only subtle now. I made my peace with never being a mum long ago.
‘I always thought I would have children at some point, but the time never felt right. Nathan and I were always so focused, so busy. And now...well, now it’s hardly an option.’
I try the handle and it opens up. Duck down to look at the pristine beige leather interior, the gleaming dash. ‘Impressive.’
‘As are you.’
There’s an element of awe in his voice that has my heart turning over, the warmth spreading all the more, and I try to ignore it as I rise back up. It runs too deep, sparks too much. ‘What year is she?’
‘1969.’ He comes up behind me.
‘You and your father did a great job. She’s stunning.’ I step away from him as fear rises up. Why do I care so much about what he thinks? I promised I would only care for my own opinion going forward. That I wouldn’t fall into that trap again. I try to focus on the car; it’s safer, less confusing. I take in her bright red paint, the gold sills and matching wheels that look too clean to have ever been driven and remember what he said.
‘You really don’t take her out much?’
He laughs. ‘Not often. She’s hardly safe for today’s roads.’
‘You want to talk safety when you have this baby under your roof?’ I look at him like he’s grown two heads. ‘It’s practically sacrilege.’
‘Now you sound like my father. He’s been on at me to take her on a supercar tour with him.’
‘And you should.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why does that sound like aNomaybe?’
He chuckles softly. ‘It’s a maybe.’
And now I care that he hasn’t taken her out, that he hasn’t done what his dad asked of him. A request which I’m sure stems from a continued desire to bond with his son.
And I shouldn’t care. This should be about sex. Pure and simple.
Sex is less messy, less complicated, and that’s what we should be having.
Not sharing childhood tales, encouraging a personal connection that can never end well when the time comes for us to part ways.
I walk up to him, drink my fill of all that I find arousing about him and hook my hands in his hair. ‘Will you take me out in it?’
‘Now?’
I lower my gaze to his lips. ‘Not now. Though, I have to say, your toy has been quite the turn-on...’ I nudge his semi-hard cock with my body ‘...but I have other more pressing matters to attend to right now.’
He wraps his arms around me. ‘Is that so?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I play with the hair at the nape of his neck. ‘Maybe in the morning, after I fetch us some breakfast, it’s my turn to shout for it.’
‘You’re on.’
My heart gives an excited leap—I’m staying over—but then the voice is back. The one telling me this is so much more than just fun and soon it will be over. That I’ll have to give him up. Like an addiction you know is bad for you, but all you can do is cling to the moment and delay its end.
