Page 25 of Privilege
“Oh, you’ll be fine,” he says. He raises his sunglasses and perches them on hisforehead, waggling his eyebrows so the glasses go up and down.
I fight the urge to stick my tongue out at him, but I slip into the driver’s seat.
Dane leans across me and pats the steering wheel lovingly. “Now Pamela, baby,” he says, voice husky. “I know you get jealous, but I need you to be a good girl and behave, okay?”
My cheeks could cause a forest fire. “Pamela?”
He turns his head and we are inches apart. “Anderson.”
Ah.
Ignoring the fact that he’s practically in my lap, I start the car and it rumbles to life. The dash lights up like a Christmas tree.
“That’s my girl,” he says.
Fuck.I shove him away and he slumps back into his seat. “If you keep talking like that I will wreck this car on purpose,” I mutter.
“If you crash it, I’ve got another one.” He drops his sunglasses back down and lazily waves a hand. “It’s your own fault Cara. If you don’t want to hear me talk like that, don’t wear shorts.”
I can’t help but smile while I adjust my mirrors. “I didn’t realize you were such a sucker for thighs,” I say.
“I’m a sucker for you.”
Forest. Fire.“You’ve met me one time, Dane.”Why is my voice so high?
“And!” He raises one finger in the air. “Watched you come.”
It’s so unexpected, I snort. “Fair enough, Dane. It’s not like I haven’t seen your dick. Helluva meet-cute.”
The car makes an unhappy grinding noise when I try to shift.
“You’re going to need to learn how to drive properly, woman.”
I scowl at him. “I’m getting used to it! What kind of car is this?”
He looks both perplexed and delighted. “It’s a Huracan.”
I nod like I pretend I know what that means.
“That’s a Lamborghini.”
“I drive a 2008 Ford F150, back at school. In case you were wondering.”
“I can do vintage. I’ve always looked good in those hats. You know the ones, the Charlie Chaplin kind.”
I pull out of the marina and onto the main road. “A bowler hat? Not even sure you could pull that off.”
“Bingo! That’s the one. In fairness, I look good in everything. Except a graduation cap,” he says. “It’s fundamentally impossible to look good in a graduation cap.”
“I’m going to take a wild leap and say you got laid at graduation anyway,” I say wryly.
The silence speaks volumes.
“You can floor it here, if you want,” he says after a while. The road ahead is straight and flat, and there’s no traffic anywhere to be seen.
“Fuck it,” I say. They can probably buy me out of a ticket if I get one.
Dane’s eyebrows pop up over the rims of his aviators at the same time as I drop the pedal to the floor. The power of it, of the instant response from this chrome missile while we shoot ahead with the wind whipping my hair back, God my body sings with adrenaline. Like being on a roller coaster.
