Page 47 of Road Trip to Forever
“Hey, Pattycakes,” she says, using the nickname she called me as a kid.
“Hey, Yoyo,” I say, using hers right back.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
“Weird, right? You called, and here I am. What’s going on?”
“My zipper is stuck. I think it’s caught on a thread, and I can’t fix it myself. Could you help me? Emma is taking last-minute pictures, and Jo is watching Wyatt so Rebecca can use the bathroom and touch up her makeup. I snuck out when no one was looking. They don’t need to be stressed out about something so minor.”
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
Her grin is bright and blinding, and she gathers the ends of her hair off her neck. “You’re a good friend.”
She turns around, and I wish she hadn’t, because this side of the dress might be even worse.
The useless scraps of fabric show off her whole back. The valley between her shoulder blades, the length of her spine. Smooth, fair skin I so badly want to run my fingers over. So badly want to kiss and taste and bite.
I make my way across the hardwood floor toward her, trying—and failing—to keep my eyes on her shoulders instead of her backside. When I’m within arm’s reach, I hesitate.
This is a dangerous line I’m toeing, restraint growing weaker and weaker by the second. I’m holding on by a thin thread that’s reaching the end of its spool, about to run out.
I’m a grown man.
A woman in a dress shouldn’t affect me this much. Shouldn’t make me want to lock the door, barricade it with a chair, and keep her in here forever, but that’s what I’m close to doing.
I’m two seconds away from dropping to my knees. Hiking up her gown so I can kiss the top of her leg, drag my teeth down the faint scar on the inside of her thigh, and tell her she’s gorgeous. Stunning. Exquisite. Every other damn wonderful adjective there is in the English language. I’ll throw the whole thesaurus at her, and then I’ll find words in other dialects too.
When she shuffles backward and lines her hips up with mine, zipping her up is the only polite thing on my mind. My thoughts turn wicked. I might go to hell, but Lola Jones is worth the burn.
I imagine her on her knees. Mouth parted, eyes wide as she unbuttons my pants. Smearing her lipstick, wrecking and ruining her so she can’t walk straight as she makes her way down the aisle.
So she knows she’s mine.
Learning the sounds she makes and doing whatever she wants, again and again, until she has nothing left to give. The taste of her on my lips, better than any dessert I’ve ever had.
I don’t know what I was thinking. This woman will never bejust a friendto me. She hasn’t been in a really long time.
“Going to touch you now, okay?” I murmur.
“Okay,” she murmurs back.
I reach for her dress. The zipper is stuck near the bottom, a rogue thread caught in the teeth. I work out the snag and carefully drag it up. It’s a slow and painful process that has my breath warm on her shoulders and my knuckles running up her spine.
There’s a hitch in her breathing as her head tips to the side and she bares her neck to me, teasing me again as I’d like nothing more than to mark her. To leave a red spot right under her ear so people know she’s spoken for. Ask her to give me one too so we can match.
“How’d you get yourself into this mess?” I ask. I haven’t pulled away from her yet, too distracted by the length of her throat. The sharp lines of her collarbone. The little sigh she lets out when I give her arm a squeeze to tell her I’m finished.
“There was champagne. Pictures. A hamburger. Patrick, it was the best burger of my life,” she says. “Thank god for shapewear or I wouldn’t fit into this dress.”
“You all got burgers?”
“Fries, too.”
“Adding insult to injury. All we got were stale crackers and cheese. I’m sensing some favoritism.”
“Do you think you’ll survive?” Lola teases.
“I’m going to try. I’m holding out for that five-tiered cake,” I say.
