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So what if she doesn’t trust me? I text her to see if she’s gotten home okay. She doesn’t answer, but that’s okay. Texting and driving isn’t safe, and I want her safe. And happy. Happy’s good, too. Then I get up. I’ll go for a run because no way I go back to sleep now, and trust me, being a hotshot requires you to stay in peak shape. Somedays, hauling gear from point A to point B feels like trying to drag a cannon uphill in the grass.
By the time I’m lacing my sneakers and it’s gray outside rather than pitch black, Sarah Jo hasn’t text back and I know she has to be home. Unless she ran out of gas or that POS car of hers crapped out and she’s stranded by the roadside. I should totally check on that. I text again.
If you don’t prove you’re okay, I’m coming out for a welfare check.
Then I grab my earbuds and head outside. I’m debating between hitting the trail or hitting the highway when she finally texts back. She doesn’t waste any words on me, either. She just sends a picture. Of herself.
She’s in bed. Do you think that’s an invitation? Because I’d love to take it that way. Plus, she’s still wearing my shirt and my inner caveman demands I beat on my chest. Do some growling. Possibly tattoo Pick’s on her ass or mark her with my jizz. Too much? The thing is, I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough of her.
You stole my shirt.
Think she might have stolen something else, but I’m not going there. Not yet. Not like I was doing much with my heart anyhow. She kissed me. She rode my big dick like a pogo stick and rode the hell out of me, but she doesn’t trust me. No matter how awesome the sex is, she doesn’t like losing control. I get that. From our first kiss to when she opened my door and came straight on over to my bed, she’s taken charge and she’s never really let go.
Does it sound like I’m a whiney bitch to complain about her take-charge attitude in bed? Because it’s not that I didn’t love fucking her and being fucked by her. I loved it. Think all the moaning and groaning I did proved that. It’s just that she’s busy taking charge because then she can keep me out of the important parts of her. And I don’t know how to fix that, because although I enjoyed the hell out of our night together, I do want more than acrobatics and a mind-blowing orgasm that still has me seeing stars and tenting the front of my running shorts.
Chapter Twelve
Pick
Sarah Jo, me, and a Saturday night. If I want to be more than her midnight hook up, I need to make a move. And this way I get a two-for-one. I show her a good time, treat her like a queen, and let the whole world—my world—see that we’re together and not just making my RV rock. This is the civilized version of jizzing on her tits and inviting everyone to look at what I’ve done. When I pull my bike into the parking lot of Drink Up, I’m congratulating myself on my genius. Since I picked Sarah Jo up at her place and we rode here together, I’ve had her arms wrapped around me, hugging me. Holding me close. For fucking miles.
Tell me that’s not genius.
She pops off my bike, balancing herself with a hand on my shoulder as she shucks the helmet I bought for her. I like the way she leans on me, the way she’s letting me take care of her. Not like she can’t do for herself, but it’s that caveman of mine. He wants to beat his chest and bring down a mastodon and BBQ its ass for her.
She grins at me. “It’s not the titty bar. You think you’ll survive?”
Fuck, I love the way she laughs, the giggle-snort that starts somewhere near her belly and just flies out her mouth. And I love that we’re starting to have couple jokes, a history. Pretty soon I’ll fucking be calling her bunny and I’ll be a boo.
“I’m taking a rain check,” I say, saluting her.
She laughs and tugs on my hand. “Come on, or your friends will drink the place dry.”
It’s a distinct possibility. Drink Up is beery, dark, and absolutely rocking. The décor is mostly neon beer sign and dust, with a side of old, bad paneling and vinyl seating. Some of my boys are already doing the conga on the small dance floor, shaking their asses to the country music belting out of the antiquated jukebox. I hacked that shit once, made it play Handel’s Messiah at top volume. Colt and I waltzed. It was an epic night, but I sense tonight will be even better.
