Page 65 of Read Me (Forget the Past 2)

“Paige and Dash. Okay, that’s easy enough to remember.”

Cole pulls into a parking lot, settling his truck in a spot farther from the bar than most people parked. When he pulls the key from the ignition, everything seems to go dark. I can only discern the outline of his face from the restaurant lights behind us.

“We can head straight in, or…” Cole lets his sentence trail off, giving me the option to fill in the blank. I get the sense that if I took option one, he’d be fine with that. The idea of Cole trying to guilt me for not kissing him seems ludicrous.

He’s the one that took me out for bagels rather than taking me to bed.

And despite how delicious that excursion was, no amount of cream cheese could get me to stop craving Cole.

“I chooseor.” My seat belt unbuckling sounds loud in the truck cab. Shifting around until I’m on my knees on my seat, I brace myself to make a wanton move. “That okay with you?”

Cole watches me, his eyes sharp as ice. When I tilt his way, his hands shoot out to steady me, and then I find myself guided onto his lap. With my knees on either side of his hips, the cotton of my dress bunches up around my thighs. I pull my mind away from that part of my body. If I think on it too long, my fingers might reach for Cole’s zipper.

Trying to make my hands behave, I tangle them together behind Cole’s head, leaning into his chest to bring our mouths close.

“Do you still want to make out with me?” I doubt he would’ve helped me into his lap if the answer was no, but it’s always good to have clarity.

“Fuck yes.” The way he mutters the curse has me shivering in anticipation. Then his mouth captures mine, and I’m no longer starving. I’m feasting.

Cole cups the back of my head, tilting me at the angle he wants, teasing my lips with his tongue until I open for him. The taste of him isn’t like any food. He’s a man, and he tastes like it. With his flavor on my tongue, I can’t help thinking about sex. And when I think about sex, my hips rock in agreement with the direction of my thoughts.

“Summer.” Cole growls my name against my mouth, as if chastising me.

I pull back, panting and blushing.

“Sorry! It’s just…been a while. And you’re…”

“I’m what?”

My brain stumbles over comparisons. “You’re like drinking an entire bottle of red wine. I’m drunk and horny around you.”

Suddenly, I find myself crushed against Cole’s chest. He buries his face in my neck, groaning as if in pain.

Did I knee him?

“Cole?”

“Want me to take care of you?” His question comes out low and rumbly, paired with his touch brushing along the edge of my underwear. His hand found its way up my skirt at some point.

Thoughts of what he’s offering tumble through my head. We’re in a public parking lot, minutes away from me meeting his friends. But all I can focus on is how delicious it would be to orgasm right here, in Cole’s truck, on his lap, his fingers bringing me there.

I want to lose myself in him, just for a little while.

“Yes.” The whisper thickens the air in the cab of the truck.

Cole’s open mouth brushes over my pulse, the heat of his breath burning my skin. The sensation is almost enough to distract from the tug of elastic as he pushes under the cotton of my panties.

But the moment a fingertip traces over my folds, nothing short of an explosion could take my attention away from the space between my legs.

Cole caresses my entrance, his finger becoming slick with my arousal. I’m on the verge of begging for him to push inside me, when he moves away. But he doesn’t leave me. Instead, his touch claims that perfect, sensitive spot that men often forget.

Cole Allemand pays tribute to my clit.

Intelligent thought ceases. My brain reverts to its primordial roots, where all it cares about is indulgence. I want to rub myself against him, mindless and wild. Nothing matters but the skill with which he teases my nerve endings. The edges of my vision blur because who needs to see when all their body is meant for is pleasure?

“Yes!” I gasp, realizing I’ve been chanting the word as my nails dig into Cole’s shoulders.

He leans his head back, lids heavy, watching me as his fingers pluck me apart piece by piece.

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