Page 45 of Where It All Began
He opened her door, feasted on her mouth until she was frantic, and then slammed the door shut in her face before racing around to the driver’s side.
He jumped in, starting the engine before his door was even shut. Phoebe was already sliding across the seat to him.
“Donotdistract the driver,” he ordered.
Phoebe ignored the direct order and shucked her t-shirt over her head.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” he muttered, shooting her breasts a desperate look as they careened toward home.
“I’ve never seen you drive so fast,” Phoebe murmured, returning her mouth to the tensile curve of his bicep. She nipped. “Usually you’re so slow and methodical.”
“If you don’t behave, we’re going to end up in a ditch.”
“I don’t care where we are as long as you’re inside me.”
“Christ. When you talk like that, it drives me insane. There’s no blood left in my brain.”
Phoebe slid her hand down his chest, over taut abs to the waistband of his Levi’s. “I wonder where it all went?” Playfully, she yanked the button on his fly open.
“I think I’m going to black out.” He pressed the accelerator down to the floor as they left the town limits. The old truck reluctantly picked up speed.
She drew down the zipper on his jeans with her last ounce of patience.
“Phoebe.” There was a warning in there somewhere tangled up with breathless yearning.
“Just drive, John.” She plunged her hand into the loosened waist band and breathed hot against his shoulder when she found him hard.
They were flying now at least as fast as the truck could manage, which wasn’t much higher than the speed limit. But she was done waiting, done over-thinking, done letting him plot and plan and weigh his options. She slipped her fingers under the band of his boxers and gripped flesh, hot steel flesh.
The way John gritted out her name made her shaky and weak.
She bit her lip to keep the desperate noises that were clawing their way up her throat quiet. Determined to drive him to the edge, Phoebe stroked down from the crown of his cock to the thick root.
John cut the wheel hard to the left on an oath. She felt the truck slide, heard the grate of gravel churning beneath them, and felt the dull thud of an impact. “Close enough.”
They were in his driveway—technically next to it—the tailgate gently kissing the fence post it had fishtailed into.
John cut the engine and lifted his hips, shoving down his jeans.
“Yes,” she hissed, yanking his boxers with the jeans. And when he sprang free, one of those moans clamored its way out of her throat.
He was on her then, hands cupping her breasts through the lace of her bra, mouth tasting what her lips offered.
“We need to slow down,” he murmured, against her jaw.
“No time.” Phoebe fought his shirt over his head and licked and bit a path over his chest.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth which turned into a groan when she wrapped her tight fist around his shaft and stroked, pumping him hard enough to coat his blunt crown with moisture.
“Damn it.” He shoved the straps of her bra off her shoulders and unhooked the closure. She spilled free into his hands and then his mouth was on her. First one tender peak and then the other. His desperate pulls had Phoebe arching her back, offering him more. Overwhelmed, out of control. That’s how he made her feel.
He stroked the flat of his tongue over her nipple, and Phoebe’s head fell back on her shoulders. She wanted this, to be awash in nothing but pleasure, sharp and jagged, and John was taking her there as if he already knew every secret desire she had.
“Are you still thinking of the future Mrs. Pierce?” she gasped out the words.
“I can forget about her for a night,” he murmured against her breast. “Besides, technically we’re not in the house.”
She grabbed his face in her hands. “You’re not going to want to marry me after this, are you?”
