Page 31 of That Moment
“You said you don’t repeat mistakes.” My voice dips, low and soft. “You told me that on my sixteenth birthday… just three years later when you asked what I wanted and I said a second kiss.”
His jaw flexes. “You remember that, huh?”
“Hard to forget.” My throat feels dry.
He dips his head down to look into my eyes. “Last night you said that maybe we should try it again. Just to see if we’re better at it.”
“Do you—” I swallow nervously, “think that we would be? Better at it?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I feel a rush from my belly, straight to my
thighs. “I think it’d ruin us.”
My heartbeat feels like it trips over itself. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
He swallows hard, like he’s fighting an internal battle, and then he moves.
It’s small at first, just a step closer, then another. The air grows thick between us. I can smell the faint hint of his sweat. His hands are still rough from work, grease smudged faintly along the backs. He reaches for me, slow, careful, like he’s giving me every chance to step back.
Instead, I stay right where I am.
“Hands,” he murmurs, nodding toward mine. “You’re a mess.”
He takes one, turns it palm up. His thumb drags across the streak of oil near my wrist, slow enough to make my breath hitch. Then he reaches for a rag, dampens it with cleaner, and starts wiping the grease from my fingers. It’s gentle, almost reverent, the kind of touch that makes my heart ache for intimacy and my lady bits throb like I’m in heat.
When he’s done with one hand, he moves to the other. His thumb lingers against the inside of my wrist, tracing the flutter of my pulse. I swear he can feel it hammering.
“You missed a spot,” I whisper, voice trembling.
He smirks. “Where?”
I gesture vaguely toward my cheek, and he steps in, so close the heat of him sinks straight through me. His rough fingers brush against my skin, slow, deliberate, wiping away the faint smudge of grease. But he doesn’t stop once it’s gone. His thumb drifts, the back of his knuckles grazing down my jaw.
I forget how to breathe.
His eyes lock on mine, and for a split second, everything else disappears… the hum of the lights, the citrus tang of the cleaner, the years of holding back. It’s just him and me. The space of a breath between us.
Then he exhales, low and rough, and I know he’s fighting it just as hard as I am.
“Scotty,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.
His mouth curves into that slow, wicked smile that’s undone me since I was thirteen. “Careful, Barbie,” he murmurs, his voice rasping like gravel. “Now I’m the one under your skin.”
He leans one impossible inch closer, enough that his breath fans across my lips, close enough that I can almost taste the lingering coffee on his breath, and then he stops. Pulls back just enough to break whatever spell we’re under.
The loss of his heat feels like a slap. I blink, dazed, while he steps away, grabbing the rag again like he needs something to do with his hands. “You should head home,” he says softly. “Long day.”
I find my voice, barely. “I fucking hate you.”
He grins, that infuriating, heart-melting grin, and throws in a wink to just make it that much sexier. “No, you don’t.”
I smack his arm, but the touch just makes it worse. His muscles tense under my palm, solid and warm. I snatch my hand back before I can do something reckless, like grab his collar and kiss him myself.
“See ya, Bescher.” He stares at me for another second before taking a few steps back.
“Bye, Barbie.”
I turn before he can see how flushed I am, how my hands are still trembling. Outside, the cool evening air hits my skin, but it doesn’t cool the ache simmering just beneath the surface.
