Charged silence.
The kind that vibrates under your skin.
The kind that makes your thighs clench for no reason and has your heart beating like it knows something’s about to go down.
It’s only 9 PM, but I swear if we don’t stop soon, I’m going to spontaneously combust right here in the passenger seat.
My nipples are so hard, they ache. I’m basically a walkingdo mesign in fucking hot pink yoga pants with a matching tank top.
No, I had no time to change at all. Besides, the sexy fucker already had my luggage in his trunk.
I huff out a sigh.
All this anticipation has me frazzled as all get.
Koa hasn’t said a word since we merged onto the highway.
His dark eyes stay on target, glued to the road.
His jaw is so tense it could cut glass.
One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift like he’s preventing it from suddenly getting up and running away on its own.
The radio’s on low, something like classic rock and roll humming in the background.
I can’t tell you the name of the song playing.
Too busy spending all my energy on trying to remain calm.
But all I can hear is my pulse pounding in my ears, and my inner voice screaming at me tojump him, jump him now.
The things he said earlier. Those secret wishes, dirty little promises he uttered so easily. That filthy, growled list of all the things he wants to do to me?
They’re playing on a loop in my head.
Each one more X-rated than the last.
Each one making me want to slide into his lap and beg him to make good on every single word.
Now, listen. I know sex doesn’t equal a relationship.
But this man?
Koa Jackson is a walking, talking, six-foot-four rugby sex god.
He’s carved like a sculpture.
He scowls like it’s an art form.
And he growls like he was born to bend a woman over and fuck the thoughts right out of her head.
And don’t get me started on his dick.
I haven’t even done more than touch it, but I know—I know—it’s thick and veiny and capable of very illegal things.
So far, I’ve had my hands on him.And his cum on me.
But I want more.