Page 69 of Single Girl in the City
“So you’re saying no?”
He spun her around and she was suddenly sitting on the truck’s bench; she hadn’t heard him open the door. One minute she was in his arms, the next she was in his truck, with him standing between her thighs, which were still wrapped around his waist. “I’m saying until we get back to my place.”
She looked at the interior of the truck, then back to the muscled man in front of her. She saw the problem. “Even if you have to go the speed limit?”
He kissed her nose. “Even then.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Happy Things:
Marvin Gaye
Even doing the speed limit they made it back to the loft in record time. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was the gods shining down on him, but his determination to do the right thing had paid off—in spades.
Next to him was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen, soaked straight through to her no-bra breasts, which were a miracle of their own. He hadn’t even put the car in Park when he was leading her up the flight of steps and through the back door.
“Your place or mine?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, just tightened her arms around him and kissed the bejesus out of him.
His place it was.
Mouth still fused to hers, he unlocked the door and they stumbled inside. Before they’d crossed the landing his little multitasker had his shirt unbuttoned and his jeans zipped down. Which was fine with him since his hands had been busy with her jeans, which he’d peeled halfway down her legs.
Their current state of undress made it difficult to navigate his place, making them more of a wrecking ball blasting through. They banged into one wall, then the other, which spoke to their dedication to the cause because there were only four walls in his loft.
She shoved off his shoes, using her feet to pull his jeans the rest of the way off.
“Commando,” she said, running her hands down to give him a little nice-to-meet-you stroke.
He did some inspecting of his own. “Thong. Red. Hot as hell.”
Then they were back to kissing, hands moving, legs shuffling and then they stumbled right into the kitchen counter.
“Boots,” she said against his mouth.
“Love them.”
“Unless you want me to reallystumbleinto bed, then they need to come off.”
Right. He saw the problem. Wet denim and cowgirl boots. Taking her hips, he sat her on the counter. She rested back on her hands, looking like a fine Southern sexpot, then held out one leg. He disposed of the boot, then the other, tugging her jeans off and onto the ground. When all the obstacles were dealt with, he picked her up and whirled her around, which made her laugh—and what an amazing laugh it was.
Genuine, contagious—the kind of laugh that made his chest ache for more than just surviving the day-to-day.
Onto the bed they went, where he plopped her down on the mattress, the movement giving her breasts a little jiggle, an outstanding viewer experience.
Going to his place had been an excellent choice in location. It had a king-sized bed, compared to her twin, and a headboard that could make things interesting. Then there was the kitchen and all the thirteen counters and nooks that they could explore over the next twelve hours. That’s a flat surface every hour—and one for good luck. And if—if—they happened to run out of places, then they’d go back into the truck and give it a whirl.
Hell, maybe he should have just started in the truck because then she’d be naked and on top of him screaming his name. But then he wouldn’t be able to see her on his bed, laid back with her damp hair spread across his pillow, looking up at him like he was going to rock her ever-loving world.
Needing a moment, he stood back to take in the eighth wonder of the world: those perfect tens, which were practically spilling out of her top. The kind of top that had two little straps that were meant to mess with a man’s mind. That kind of top.
Tight. White. Wet. And floor bound. Just as soon as he could stop staring.
“You going to keep looking or are you ready to move on to the touching portion of the evening?”
“Just deciding where I want to start.”
