Page 8 of Car Wash
His jaw clenches.
“We’ll go to your house and you can change. Then I’ll decide whether I’m bringing you back here or not.”
My core clenches, releasing an army of butterflies doing a tightrope walk in my stomach.
“That okay with you?” he says more softly.
I let out a little squeak and nod my head.
He puts on his sunglasses and shifts into drive.
“Good.”
There’s a tick in his jaw as we peel onto the gravelly street. The air conditioning kicks in and a shiver runs through me. I wrap my arms around myself as my nipples pebble.
He doesn’t look over at me. He just reaches out and turns off the A/C, then presses the button for the moonroof. It slides open with a soft mechanical hiss.
Sunlight spills in through the moonroof, warm and direct. It cuts across his cheekbones, catching in the stubble along his jaw. He shifts slightly in his seat, one hand still on the wheel, the other resting loose beside the gear shift.
It’s quiet for a few moments. Just the low hum of the engine and the soft rush of wind through the open roof.
I settle back into the leather, my skin still damp, my pulse still racing.
“Yeah,” I say, glancing over at him with a tiny smile. “Much better.”
Chapter Four
John
She tellsme where to turn, and I follow, the roads narrowing until we’re in a quieter part of campus. The houses get smaller. The trees are older, more wild. Flower pots, pale from the sun, are lined up in front of a house with loose shutters.
“This is me,” she says as we make our approach.
This is where she lives? I think I’m going to have to write a bigger check.
“I know,” she says. “It’s not exactly a mansion.”
“I’m sure you’ll live in a mansion someday,” I say. “If that’s what you want.”
She huffs out a breath and rolls her eyes.
“Care to tell me how I might make that happen?” she says.
“Work hard. Say yes to the right things.”
She looks down at her hands and gives a small shake of her head.
“I’ve got the hard work part down,” she says. “I guess I haven’t been saying yes to the right things.”
Does she think what happened back there is her fault? There are assholes everywhere. That doesn’t make her responsible for their terrible actions.
“No,” I rasp. It’s harsher than I intended. “No. What that guy did was wrong, plain and simple.”
Something twists inside my stomach.
She looks up at me, her eyes as wide as saucers, lips slightly parted and glistening. That white t-shirt is still clinging to her chest. I force myself to look away, but not before catching the unmistakable outline of her bra—and what’s showing through it.
Her nipples are hard, clearly visible through the soaked fabric, and all I can think about is how soft her curvy body would feel beneath my hands.
