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“What the hell are you doing?” she shouts. We’re in the passenger seat, which is pushed all the way back, and she’s wriggling, her long hair in my face.
I wrap my arms around her and tighten them. She can’t leave.
I won’t let her.
“You want to talk to me?” I say dryly.
“Not like this!”
“Talk.”
“Let me go!”
“Let you go where?”
“I can sit in the driver’s seat.” But she’s slowing down, settling into my lap. One heel from her shoe digs into my shin, but I don’t care. She smells like fear and sugar.
Lindsay is the only woman who does this to me.
Drives me up a fucking wall and makes me want to hold her for eternity.
“Whatever you’ve been doing on the darknet needs to stop, Lindsay.”
“Oh, God. Another lecture.”
“It’s my job. And you didn’t deny it.”
“Your job is to protect me. My mom’s job is to lecture me. Are you my mom now?”
“If you have mistaken me for Monica, you have more serious issues than I’d ever imagined.”
A reluctant snort comes out of her. She calms in my arms, then slumps her shoulders with a sigh. “Do I have to sit in your lap for this conversation?” She wriggles her ass against me. “It’s getting uncomfortable.” Her eyes meet mine and she smirks.
Damn it.
I run my hand along the lines of her arm, tight with muscle and a little too thin. She’s dropped weight since she went to the Island. Four years changed her. She’s gorgeous in every way possible, but the worry lines in her forehead make me want to steal her away. Remove her from this gigantic mess.
My job, though, is to keep her right in the middle of it all.
Keep her safe.
She moves out of my lap without words, her ass suddenly in my face as she crawls over the console to get into the driver’s seat.
“Nice view.”
“Shut up.”
Her thighs slide against mine, her legs bare and tan, smooth as spun silk. Blood pounds through me, rushing with a massive tingle to every pore in my body. I tense. If she doesn’t get her skin away from me in about two seconds, I’ll end up kissing her in here.
And I can’t do that.
I can’t do that because it wouldn’t be just one kiss.
And going at it with Lindsay in a tinted SUV limo in front of a hundred media outlets is the very definition of not doing my job.
Lifting one knee, she moves, her panties in my face. I close my eyes, thinking about baseball scores, Jabba the Hut, Monica – anything to get this raging hard on under control.
“Foster?” someone barks in my earpiece. “Paulson here. Gentian says you have Lindsay?”
