Page 9 of Rough Daddy
"Up."
"That's... specific." She shifts, and the darts of her nipples in the cold A/C of the truck stick out through her still-damp little white blouse. I damn near drive off the fucking road. “Again, Mr. Boone, I think I have a right to know where exactly I’m going. After all, you did not provide me with more than anecdotal evidence of your identity, besides some referential conversation with a brother and the threat of calling your sisters-in-law. I think I should get—"
I expel a hard breath on a few curse words. If I wasn’t ass over teakettle for this girl already, I might introduce her to the magic silence a strip of duct tape can bring.
Her eyes are on me, waiting for more details about where we are going, I’m sure, but I’m not sure what to tell her.
Your new home?
That’s likely not going to garner me more trust, so I keep the words lodged in my windpipe.
"Are you always this chatty?" She crosses her arms, lips rolling together as she raises a brow at my mute silence.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On whether I like the company."
She goes quiet. When I glance over, she's biting her lip, staring out at the trees. Shoulders hunched.
"Do you?" Voice smaller. Eyes back toward me. "Like the company?"
Shit. I am many things, but a liar I’m not. I can avoid a question, skirt the truth like I did at the car wash. But out-and-out lying?
Not my style.
"Yeah." I nod. "I like it."
The apples of her cheeks burn dark pink. "Good."
My approval matters to her. My cock throbs.
"You scared of heights?" I ask before the urge to pull the truck over and show her exactly how much I like her company takes hold.
"No." She pauses, then softer, "Should I be?"
"Depends how much you trust me."
She looks at me then. Those brown eyes search my face, and heat prickles up my spine. "Can I? Trust you, that is?"
The question hangs between us like a loaded gun. I take the next curve fast, tires gripping asphalt, and her hand shoots out to brace against the dashboard.
Her breath catches. She gasps, followed by a little moan.
I want to hear that sound again. Louder. In my bed.
"You can trust me," I answer, rolling my neck around in an effort to release the knots she’s tying me in. "I've been driving this road for twenty years."
"Is that what we're talking about?" Her hand is still pressed against the dash, knuckles white.
We climb higher. Trees get thicker, air thinner. She's quiet, watching the world narrow to just us and the mountain.
One last turn and we’re on my property. My guesthouse sits at the end of a gravel drive, small and clean with a view that drops straight to nowhere.
I park and kill the engine.
"This is it?"
