Page 15 of Crashed
Oh, my God, I’m a complete and utter slut.
So much for making him work for it. She would have dropped her panties right there in his living room after the orgasm he’d given her.
Her face heated. How would she survive this?
She was supposed to resist, be strong—instead she’d wrapped her legs around his hips and rubbed up against him like a dog in heat until she got off.
Martin was waiting for them by the Mercedes when they came down from the apartment. He stepped forward as they approached and opened the door for her, which made her feel uncomfortable. Since when did a mechanic’s son, who’d spent half his life in coveralls with grease on his hands, need someone to open his damn door?
She looked at Deacon, who still had hold of her hand even though she’d tried to wrench her fingers free from his grasp several times. “Why the hell do you need a chauffeur?”
She heard Martin chuckle under his breath as she climbed in. “Shit, sorry, Martin.”
Martin winked and went around to take the driver’s seat.
Deacon slipped an arm around her waist and slid her closer to him in the backseat. “Martin’s driving us tonight so I can focus all my attention on you.” His hand took hers and then rested them on his solid, warm thigh. The muscle beneath jumped and things down below started to fire up all over again. She tried to slide her hand out from under his.
“Give it up, Alex. I’m not letting you go.”
Great. She needed some distance, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen. And sitting here, plastered together, while his fingers lightly stroked her waist was starting to get her all hot and bothered. “So, who are these old farts we’re meeting tonight?” It was the unsexiest thing she could think of in that moment.
He smiled, all masculine gorgeousness. And dammit, that set off some more happy tingles down south. The guy had a killer smile, always had, and he knew how to use it.
“What makes you think Jarrod’s an old fart?”
“Aren’t all you business types a pack of premature-aging stuffed suits?” She congratulated herself when his eyes narrowed at her.
He leaned in and brushed his lips against her ear. Did he know how much she loved when he kissed her there, how much it affected her? “You’ll pay for that when we get back to my place. I can’t wait to get you out of that dress.”
She swallowed hard and turned to look out the window.
All the witty comebacks she’d had swirling in her head went poof, vanished into thin air with those huskily spoken words.
She squeezed her thighs together, the tingles upping their assault, and squirmed in her seat.
Deacon’s soft laugh drifted over her, like he could read her mind, like he knew exactly how much she wanted him despite her attempts to convince him otherwise. Arrogant prick. She swiveled around and socked him in the arm.
“Hey.” He held up both hands. “What was that for?”
He rubbed at his shoulder, and his bottom lip popped out. And all she could think was that she wanted to lean in and suck on it, lick it. Dammit. If mind bleach was a thing, she’d totally wash him from her memories. Erase the day she’d ever laid eyes on Deacon West.
“Just stop acting like an ass. And FYI, you can’t pull off cute, so stick your lip back in.”
He reached down and squeezed her ass. “Fine, I’ll stick with what I do best.”
Hand finally free, she quickly crossed her arms so he couldn’t get hold of it again. He shrugged and rested his big, warm hand high on her thigh instead. That was so much worse. She made a note for future reference.
When they got to the restaurant, Deacon took hold of her hand again as soon as she stepped out of the car. This time she didn’t try to pull free—there was no use, and besides, the jerk would probably grab her ass as an alternative.
But that wasn’t the only reason, and though she’d never admit it to him, she was nervous about meeting these bigwig business types. What could she possibly have to talk about with people like that? The only thing she knew about were cars, and she doubted the suits Deke hung with had the first clue what was under the hood of their expensive sports cars, let alone could dream of getting grease under their manicured fingernails.
The woman at the door led them to the back of the room. The only person there was a guy about Deke’s age.
“Jarrod,” Deacon said and walked straight over to him.
She should have guessed. He was all suited up the same. They looked like a couple of Ken dolls in their dark suits and slicked-back hair. “Good to see you.”
Jarrod took his hand in a firm shake. “Glad you could make it.”
