Page 7 of Fourth Wheel
I catch up to her and ensnare her with an arm around her waist, pulling her across the road to safety while relishing the way she melts into my side like she can’t possibly get close enough.
I’m only slightly embarrassed I haven’t asked her name. She obviously knows mine. She probably heard Jake or one of the guys say it at some point tonight.
Typically, I prefer anonymity out of my one-night stands. But that’s not the case tonight. It’s strange to immediately and unexpectedly wantmore.
I want to know her name. I want to know her story. I want to know exactly what she sounds like when she’s clinging to the edge, seconds away from shattering around my cock. I haven’t even had this woman yet, and somehow, I’m already craving more.
Not wanting to break our connection, I move my arm up to rest it on her shoulder and feel her shudder under my hold.
“Cold?” I ask, already shucking off my jacket. I help her slip it on, then watch as she pulls her long blond hair out from under the collar, her loose curls cascading down the center of her back. When she pushes a few strands behind her shoulder, I get a whiff of her scent, and I can’t help but inhale again. She smells like sweet strawberries—like summer and sunshine.
“Why don’t you park in the back like everyone else?” she asks as we walk along the brick path that cuts through the town green.
Wait, what?
Most of the employeesdopark in the back lot behind The Oak, and some patrons do, too, when all the street spots are taken, but it’s weird she noticed and thought to ask.
I shrug off her question as genuine curiosity. “I’m not usually in a rush to get home after work. I’m new to bartending. It’s sort of overwhelming to have people clamoring for my attention all night. I like having a few minutes to myself after all the craziness.”
I click the auto-start on my Range Rover, lighting up the interior of the car as I guide her toward the vehicle.
“Wait—that’s your car?” She cranes her neck to look up at me, that same mischievous expression she’s been taunting me with all night dancing on her face.
“It is,” I confirm, guiding her toward the passenger door.
“You’re a bartender at The Oak, yet you drive a Range Rover?” she deadpans.
I fight back a smirk, instead repeating the line she used on me earlier. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
Before we make it to the car, the first hushed chime of the clock tower fills the quiet night air. Her body stiffens in my grasp, then she spins out of my hold and grabs me by the hand.
“Come on!” She pulls me in the direction of the red brick structure that keeps time at the corner of the downtown green.
“Dempsey. Hurry!”
I have no idea what the rush is or where she thinks she’s going. But I find myself picking up the pace to meet her demand.
We reach the base of the clock tower as another bell chimes quietly, the low tone muted because of the late hour.
She tugs on my arm until I’m standing before her, my back to the structure. It’s at least thirty feet tall and is a historic icon in Hampton. The town is obsessed with preserving the original components, muffling the chimes when they ring out during the middle of the night instead of putting it on a digital timer. Hence the low tones we’re hearing now as the clock announces that it’s one a.m.
“I used to tell the clock tower all my secrets.” She’s winded from running, and her voice is breathy because of it. Her hands find my chest, smoothing over my pecs as she pushes me against the brick and mortar. She keeps her hands in place, but takes two big steps away from me, then uses her body weight to push me against the bricks.
“What are you—” I question.
“I want you to feel it,” she insists as she keeps me pinned in place. I don’t have time to question her, because the clock chimes again, and I instantly feel the vibrations from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes.
I hold my breath in surprise as the low humming courses through my body. The sound radiates through my limbs, and there’s an ebb and flow to the way the vibration grows. It peaks before it backs off slightly. That’s the only warning I get before it rings out again.
“Do you feel it?” she whispers in wonder.
I nod my confirmation and hold my breath again, waiting for the next toll to ring out and light up my insides.
“I want to feel it, too.”
That’s the last thing I hear before the bricks tremble behind my back and her lips press into mine. Her hands move up my neck to cup my face as her sweet, greedy tongue begs for entrance.
I willingly let her in and wrap her in my arms. She tastes just like she smells: strawberries, sugar, and the sharp tang of vodka. Her kiss is bold and confident, her lips relentless as she hypnotizes me with her mouth. Her hands are everywhere—skimming down my sides, teasing along the hem of my jeans. She even squeezes my ass, the little spitfire.
