Page 37 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

“I-I don’t…” I stammer, at a loss for words. Which, considering my usual way with words, is a feat in itself. Cole Lawson, of all people, has rendered me speechless.

He takes another step closer, his body brushing against mine, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core. The scent of motor oil and male surrounds me, intoxicating and strangely comforting.

“Lola,” he murmurs, his hand reaching out to cup my cheek. His thumb brushes lightly against my jawline, sending shivers down my spine. “It’s okay to want something.”

His words are a revelation, a whisper against the chaos of my thoughts. Want. It’s a foreign concept when it comes to Cole Lawson. For years, I’ve tried to bury the feelings he evokes, to convince myself that I’m better off without him. But the truth is, I’ve never stopped wanting him.

My gaze meets his, and in the depths of those whiskey-colored eyes, I see understanding, desire… and something that looks an awful lot like hope.

And in that moment, surrounded by engines and the scent of gasoline, I know I’m in way over my head. As much as I want to be an ostrich right about now and bury my head in the sand, Cole isn’t having it.

His thumb strokes my cheekbone, a gentle caress that sends shivers down to my toes. My breath hitches in my throat, and all I can think about is the feel of his calloused fingers against my skin, the warmth radiating from him like a physical force.

“Cole,” I whisper, his name a prayer and a protest all in one.

His name is all it takes.

The world seems to tilt on its axis as he closes the remaining distance between us. His lips brush against mine, soft and demanding at the same time. A jolt of electricity courses throughme, sparking a fire in my veins that no amount of engine heat could ever replicate.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s possessive, hungry, fueled by years of unspoken longing and simmering tension. My fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer, and he groans, the sound vibrating against my lips.

His body presses against mine, hard and unyielding. The wrench, completely forgotten, clatters to the concrete floor, the sound lost in the rush of our breaths mingling in the space between us.

His hand slides down my neck, tracing the line of my throat before settling on my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. I melt against him, every inch of me aching for more.

His tongue traces my lower lip, seeking entrance, and when I open for him, it’s a surrender I’ve craved for far too long.

The kiss is everything I remember and more—the heat, the desperation, and the fact that Cole Lawson, and only Cole Lawson, could make me feel this way.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice whispers a warning:This is a bad idea. A colossal, life-altering mistake.

But in this moment, with Cole’s lips moving against mine, I can’t bring myself to care, so I ignore it and indulge in the moment.

He tastes of mint and coffee, a potent combination that sends a rush of desire straight to my core. It’s intoxicating, this feeling of losing myself in him, in the heat of the moment. Our tongues dance a tango of need and exploration, and it’s like coming home after a lifetime lost at sea.

His hands roam, exploring the curves of my body with a possessive hunger that makes my breath hitch in my throat. One hand cups the back of my head, holding me captive against hislips, while the other slides down my back, pressing me closer until there’s not a breath of air between us.

I’m vaguely aware of the cool concrete floor beneath my feet, the scent of gasoline and grease hanging heavy in the air, and the distant clanging of tools from somewhere in the depths of the garage. But none of it matters. The only thing that matters is the feel of Cole’s body against mine, the taste of him on my lips, and the way he makes me forget who I am, where I am.

He breaks the kiss, just long enough to trail a path of fire along my jaw, his breath hot against my ear.

“Lola,” he murmurs, his voice ragged. “Tell me to stop.”

It’s the only shred of self-control he’s offering, and we both know it.

But the word stop is a foreign language, and my tongue feels heavy, useless. All I can manage is a whimper, a sound that seems to fuel his desire.

His hand slides beneath my shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of my ribcage. His touch is electric, igniting a fire in my veins that threatens to consume me entirely.

And as his hand cups my breast, his thumb brushing against my nipple, I know I’m in way too deep.

A gasp escapes my lips, a mixture of surprise and something altogether more dangerous. The heat in my veins flares, spreading through my body like a wildfire. Cole’s touch is both reverent and demanding, his thumb stroking circles against my sensitive skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating outwards.

My head falls back against the cool metal of Eleanor’s chassis, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Cole’s body. I’m breathless and lightheaded, every nerve ending thrumming with a life of its own. The world outside our little bubble ceases to exist. There’s only Cole, his scent, his touch, and the way he makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years.

He breaks away for a moment, his gaze searching mine, dark with desire and something that looks suspiciously like vulnerability. It’s a look that undoes me, melting away years of carefully constructed defenses.

“This is…” I start to say, my voice a shaky whisper. But the words fail me. How do I articulate the way he makes me feel? Like I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice, terrified and exhilarated all at once?

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