Her hand stills on the ignition. “What?” Her cheeks go pale, then bright red.
Gotcha.
“You wanted to prove to me that you’re not afraid of driving. That you’re not anxious.”
A choked laugh comes out of her, relief blooming on her pretty, albeit red, face.
“My sister used to do the same thing, you know. She has panic attacks, remember? She’d decide that today was the day she was going to conquer whatever her fear was…and then she’d get in over her head and…”
She’s staring at me, her forehead drawn up and wrinkled.
“Let me drive.”
“I am not getting out of the car in this traffic,” she says, her voice thin and constricted.
“I know you’re afraid—”
“I am not afraid,” she snaps. “I am furious.”
My eyes narrow at the strange change in her. She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Don’t be mad at yourself,” I say gently. “I’m proud of you. Trying to overcome your anxiety is hard.”
I also want to get us the fuck off the highway before the yellow Maserati gets hit and turns into a tin of something like cat food in which humans are the main ingredient.
Abigail gives me a strange look, then sighs, staring at the headliner. “Fine.”
“Good girl,” I tell her.
Her cheeks turn pink. “I still don’t want to get out of the car.”
“Slide over the center console,” I tell her. “Crawl onto my lap, and then I’ll get behind the wheel.”
Her white teeth flash as she bites her lip, considering it.
Another truck rushes by, honking, and that seems to make up hermind. Her heeled foot stretches over the console as she unbuckles her seat belt, whimpering slightly as another huge truck shakes the Maserati as it drives by.
My molars grind together, because all it takes for my dick to get hard is Abigail’s toned leg sliding across mine.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she pants, clearly panicking.
“It’s okay, Abigail. It’s okay,” I tell her, then grab her hips. “I’ve got you.”
Desire rushes through me, so fucking heady that my eyes nearly roll back into my head. God, she’s so soft here, where my fingertips dig into her delicious body. The scent of vanilla and something spicy floods my nostrils, and I graze my nose along the arch of her neck.
“Luke,” she says, gasping a little. “Please stop.”
“Right,” I grit out, placing her between me and the car door as I manage to climb into the driver’s seat, much less gracefully than she did. “Sorry. I missed you.”
She covers her face with her hands, and I strap her seat belt over her, then mine, before getting the car back to neutral and starting it back up.
The cacophony of honking finally relents as I turn off the hazards, pulling the purring Maserati forward and back on our way to whatever restaurant Abigail wanted to go to.
I love that she said seafood was our favorite.
Like she and I are one person, inseparable.
Seafood can be my favorite if that’s what it takes to keep her thinking like that.