Page 65 of Defensive Desire

There's also a high-end sound system playing some mellow alt-rock song that thuds low through the speakers.

It's the kind of vehicle that says,I can wrestle a bear and still afford a monthly bourbon subscription.

Logan looks unfairly good behind the wheel, too. One hand resting casually at twelve o’clock, the other claiming my thigh like we've done this a million times before.

He’s got sunglasses on, jawline sharp beneath a few days of scruff, his dark jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the white t-shirt that clings to every inch of his muscular chest.

Honestly? It’s rude.

I glance down at his hand. His thumb makes small, absent-minded movements above my knee, and I try very hard not to squirm at how nice it feels.

I try to distract myself from how…normalthis all feels and check in on the café.

“You’ve checked your phone, like, four times,” he says without looking over, his tone amused. “We've been gone an hour. What are you expecting? A café fire?”

I give him a hard look. “Lucy once tried to microwave soup in a metal container. I just… like knowing everything’s okay.”

He hums, lips twitching. “So you're saying you're a control freak.”

“I’mnota control freak,” I protest, even as I refresh my texts for the fifth time.

"Are you sure?" His fingers slide higher up my leg, moving under the hem of my skirt. "Shall I test that theory?"

My breath catches as his touch creeps higher and higher. He grins when I look across at him, but my legs spread wider voluntarily if only to help his cheeky escapade.

I glance at him, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you dare take your hands off the road.”

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice low and wicked. “I’ve got control right now. Not you.”

His fingers continue their slow exploration, brushing higher along my inner thigh until they reach the edge of my panties.

I inhale sharply, pressing my thighs together—and failing, because he’s already between them.

He grazes his knuckles against the damp cotton and my whole body lights up. My head tips back against the seat, lips parting on a shaky exhale.

“I think I liked it better when you were flustered over a muffin order,” he says, voice dark with satisfaction.

“Stop talking.”

“Mm. But you’re wet.”

A sound escapes me that is absolutelynotfit for polite company.

His finger slips under the edge of my panties, just the barest teasing stroke along my clit, and then—

“Shit!” he hisses, both hands suddenly gripping the wheel.

"LOGAN!"

The truck skids, tires crunching over a patch of invisible black ice. The rear fishtails for half a second, and I let out a startledgasp, grabbing the door handle with one hand, his arm with the other.

He steers into the swerve, controlling the slide with the kind of smooth, practiced calm that shouldnotbe sexy in a near-death moment.

My heart pounds rapidly inside my chest as he steadies the wheel.

“We’re good.”

I blow out a shaky laugh. “Maybeyouare. I think I saw my soul leave my body.”

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