Page 34 of Sin

He looks up at me, and for a flash of a second, I think I see the same hungry look on his face as I did last night as he was chasing his orgasm. Then it’s gone, as he blinks up at me innocently. “Thursday sounds great.”

Heat shimmies through me, and as a distraction, I turn on the music. ACDC’s “Highway to Hell” blasts through the speakers.

I take a second to enjoy the fucking irony and then, as Cassidy begins to drive, I sit back and settle in for the ride.

Chapter 18

Sin

Two Months Later

Each minute feels like an hour. My mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty. I don’t remember that ever happening before. I’m a hot box full of emotions on any given day, but nervous isn’t usually one of them.

I take a swig from my Stanley and surreptitiously dry my palms on my jeans, but it doesn’t help. So I start tapping my foot impatiently. The woman who’s reading her Kindle next to me looks up and gives an irritated sigh.

I start tapping louder, and this time with a flamenco beat. She eventually stands up, giving me a dirty look, and goes inside.

That does help.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Betty Jo pulls up to the curb, and I hold my breath.

It shouldn’t matter so much. It’s just a driver’s test, but it’s also that I want Cassidy to succeed in all the things that are important to him. For someone who excels at learning and tests, he’s been super stressed over his driver’s exam. He’s walked around for weeks with a manual in his hand, practically memorizing the whole damned thing.

I keep telling him he’ll ace it, and it’s true. He’s a good driver. A little too cautious and law-abiding for my tastes, and he struggles with parallel parking, but hell, that’s why they invented valet service.

For some reason, he gets super flustered when I tell him that and begins studying more.

The driver’s side door opens, and Cassidy jumps out of it.

I don’t need the thumbs up he flashes to tell me that he passed his driver’s test. Not only is he smiling, but his eyes glow with a wildness that appears only when he’s truly happy.

Or when he pleasures himself in front of his open window at night.

They’re the few moments when he forgets to be the cautious, well-behaved boy he had to be after his father died.

I want to see that look in his eyes all the time. I want to be the one who puts it there.

“I did it!” he calls out to me.

I let out a whoop and give him a victory salute, then rush over to him.

Every part of me has to fight the urge to wrap him up in my arms and kiss him. I hate fucking self-control, so I compromise with myself and give him a bear hug.

“I told you, you’d fucking nail it,” I say, after reluctantly releasing him.

You’re right.” He grins. “I fucking nailed it. Even the parallel parking.”

“‘Cause you’re a bad ass.”

“I need a t-shirt. So everyone can know, and you can’t ever forget.”

“No chance of that,” I say, planning on ordering a t-shirt and having it delivered immediately.

“Come on, I have to go inside to get my official picture taken, and then they’ll give me a temporary paper ID.”

“Great. More waiting.” I huff out but follow him inside.

Another half hour later, he emerges from the line, folding a little piece of paper and putting it in his wallet along with his new, temporary driver’s license. “What’s that?” I ask.

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