Page 46 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

His lips are back on mine faster than you could saycheckered flag, and holy hell, the man kisses like he drives—with skill, precision, and a reckless abandon that makes my head spin. His hands are on a mission, and apparently, that mission is to make me lose my ever-loving mind.

He’s unbuttoning my shirt, and each brush of his fingers against my skin is like a little electric shock. I’m half expecting to see sparks flying, and not just the metaphorical kind. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and holy shit, his voice just dropped another ten octaves, and it’s doing things to me, unspeakable things that would make even a romance novelist blush.

I try to come up with some witty comeback, I really do. But my brain’s turned to mush, and all I can do is make this embarrassing little whimpering moan that probably translates to “Please, sir, may I have more?” in hormone-speak.Smooth, Lola. Real smooth.

He’s peeling my shirt off now, and I shiver. Partly because dang, it’s chilly in here, but mostly because I’m about two seconds away from flying across the finish line before he really gets started. Cole, bless his heart, thinks I’m hesitating. “Lola,” he says, all serious-like, “tell me to stop, and I’ll try to walk away right now.”

Try? Oh, honey, you’d need a crowbar and a team of wild horses to pry me off you right now. “Don’t you dare walk away from me,” I manage to gasp out. “Don’t even think about it.”

And then we’re back to the kissing as his hands wander, and sweet mercy, it’s like every nerve ending in my body is doing the cha-cha. He lifts me onto the hood of the car like I weigh nothing, and I briefly wonder if all that engine lifting has givenhim super-strength or if I’ve just lost weight from all the stress-sweating I’ve been doing lately.

He’s looking at me like I’m the last cold beer on a hot summer day, and I’m melting faster than an ice cream cone in July. “You’re incredible,” he says, and the way he says it makes me believe him. For a moment, at least, until my inner critic pipes up with a sarcastic, “Yeah, right.” But then he’s kissing me again, and that pesky inner voice shuts right up.

“I’ve dreamed of touching you like this,” he whispers, and holy cannoli, when did this turn into a romance novel? Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m about as coherent as a lovesick teenager at this point, managing to gasp out his name like it’s the only word I remember. And honestly, it might be, at this point.

His hands are everywhere, leaving trails of fire in their wake, and I’m arching into him like a cat in heat. I make another noise that’s definitely inhuman and briefly wonder if I’ve forgotten how to form actual words. But you know what? Who needs words when you’ve got Cole’s hands doing… that?

He groans, the sound an anthem of need against my skin. “So damn good,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my neck. His fingers slide under the hem of my bra, pushing it up, his touch sending a flood of desire directly to my core.

I want to tell him to slow down and speed up, that this is moving too fast yet far too slow, that we’re both playing with fire. But the words won’t come out. I’m lost in the whirlwind of sensations he’s creating, the intoxicating blend of fear and desire that threatens to drown me.

He shifts again, his leg slipping between mine, his arousal a hard presence against my aching core. I gasp, the breath catching in my throat as a wave of pure, unadulterated longing washes over me. It’s been so long, too long, since I’ve felt this kind of connection, this raw, primal hunger that goes beyond the physical. This is about years of unspoken yearning, of stolenglances and near misses, of a chemistry that defies logic and reason.

His calloused, capable hands are everywhere, urging me closer, mapping the contours of my body as if committing them to memory. His touch is electric, sparking a fire in my veins.

“Oh, shit,” I breathe, my voice a shattered whisper against his lips.

“I’ve got you, Lola,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “I’ve got you.”

And then his mouth is on mine again, his kiss both a promise and a possession. His fingers dance over the clasp of my bra, freeing me with a tenderness that belies the burning hunger in his eyes. I arch into his touch, my skin tingling where his fingertips brush against my sensitized flesh. He traces the curve of my breast with his thumb, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through me that makes me gasp.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire as his gaze sweeps over my exposed skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Lola.”

He lowers his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck. I whimper, my fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. I crave his touch, his taste, the feel of his body against mine, the exquisite torture of wanting him closer, more, everything.

He senses my surrender, my unspoken need, and his hand moves lower, his fingers brushing against the skin of my inner thigh, sending another jolt of pure desire straight to my core.

He looks up at me then, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors my own. “Tell me what you want, Lola,” he whispers, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me what you need.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the gleaming metal and the scent of motor oil, with the ghost of our past swirling around us, I know the truth.

I just need him.

I must broadcast it all over my face because his grin widens, a flash of white teeth against tanned skin, and it’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear as his hand continues its slow, torturous exploration beneath the hem of my jeans.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my skin.

His fingers find the lace of my panties, and he hesitates, his thumb stroking a path over my achingly sensitive skin. The air crackles with anticipation, every nerve ending in my body thrumming with a life of its own.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice husky with restraint. “Because once I cross this line, there’s no going back.”

And I know he’s not just talking about tonight. He’s talking about us, about the years of history, the tangled web of hurt and desire that binds us together. He’s offering me a way out, one last chance to walk away before things go too far.

But walking away isn’t an option. Not anymore. Not when I can taste him on my lips, feel the heat of his gaze burning into me, crave his touch with an intensity that steals my breath away.

“I’m sure,” I almost beg, my voice trembling with a need that echoes deep inside me. “Please… just touch me.”

His answering groan has me dripping with need. And then his fingers are there, slipping past the lace, dipping into the heat between my legs.

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