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I also know he’s more than ten years older than I am, in a completely different place in his life than I am, and my brother’s very good friend. Then there’s that woman in the tweets to consider. He said she’s not his girlfriend, but . . . yeah.
Am I crazy to even think he and I could be a real couple?
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Rummage around inside my head and chest for what feels right.
What I need.
“You all right?” Brooks asks. “You’re kinda quiet.”
Opening my eyes, I tuck my hands between my thighs. He’s turning on his blinker. Taking the exit ramp from I-40 onto Highway 321. We’re less than an hour from home.
Ordinarily I’d respond with a cheery Of course! I was just treated to a magical weekend at a five-star resort, for crying out loud. I should be excellent.
Only, I’m not.
My stomach flips as we round the long, steep curve of the ramp. “I don’t want this trip to be over.”
“Me neither.”
He looks at me. I look back. My heart is in my throat. Make yourself heard. It’s always worth it.
“I want to keep doing this,” I blurt before I lose my nerve. “You and me. I like how I feel when I’m with you. We have so much fun together, and the sex . . .”
Brooks reaches for the dash and turns down the volume. Clears his throat.
“Greer.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re in completely different places in our lives.”
“I know.”
“Then there’s George.”
I swallow. “Yup.”
“I’m eleven years older than you.”
“So you don’t want to keep doing this.” I look down at my lap, eyes burning.
“I didn’t say that.”
I look up. He’s adjusting his grip on the wheel. A pink flush is working its way up the thick column of his neck.
“I slept more this weekend than I have in a year,” he continues. “The sex is awesome. I fucking love how I feel when I’m with you.”
The butterflies are rioting inside my chest now. “But?”
“But this—” His chest heaves. “It’s complicated. When I agreed to come with you this weekend, I never thought . . . I never intended . . .” He shakes his head.
“Do you regret coming?”
His head snaps in my direction. The sun slants through the lenses of his sunglasses, allowing me to see his eyes. They’re serious. “Fuck no. I just need to be careful with you, sweetheart. You’re not . . . I think we’re both out of our depth here a little bit. I’m not used to . . . you know.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Letting someone in this way.”
Oh, God. “I’m scared too.”
“No.” He reaches across the center console to take my hand. Twines our fingers, like he always does. “I don’t want you to be scared with me. I’ve never played games before, and I’m not going to play them with you. I just need some time, okay? There’s a lot to figure out. I’d never forgive myself if anyone got hurt.”
My pulse is a runaway train. Holy shit, is Brooks Huntley actually agreeing to give me a real shot?
Can’t help it. I smile, the burn in my eyes evaporating. “I like that answer. And I have to ask . . . the woman in the tweets . . .”
“She’s just a friend. A girl I knew back in high school. My dad asked me to get drinks with her, and I did. That’s it. Being with you—I see that she and I had no chemistry.” He looks me in the eye. “You and I—this is fucking fire, Greer, and I haven’t felt it with anyone else. Ever.”
Swallowing, I bite my lip to keep my smile from stretching into goofy territory. “I like that answer.”
He brings our joined hands to his mouth and brushes his lips over my knuckles. “I like that you feel comfortable asking the question. I always want to know how you’re feeling.”
“Happy. Rested. Horny.”
He drops my hand. His fingers find their way to the fly of my jeans. “Two times this morning wasn’t enough?”
“Never enough,” I breathe as he flicks open the buttons. “I’ll always want more.”
“That’s the problem,” he murmurs. And then he pulls my thong aside and glides his fingers into my slit.
Brooks, being Brooks, somehow makes it last for several agonizing minutes. Toying with my wetness. Plucking my clit between his knuckles before avoiding it altogether, dipping one finger inside me, then another. My hips rear off the leather, my hand coming down hard on the windowsill.
“Stay in your fucking seat,” he says through gritted teeth. “So help me God, if I have to slam on the brakes and you go through the windshield—”
“What?” I pant. “What are you gonna do?”
He pins me with a hot, hard look. “Fuck you so hard—make you so sore—you won’t be able to walk for a week.”
