Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  I scrub a hand over my jaw. “You could tell in the pictures and videos that he’s six foot two?”

  She points with two fingers at her eyes. “These work. And women are always being lied to about how many inches something is, so I’ve learned that a girl has to be able to tell size on her own.”

  “Tell size? Is that like telling time?”

  “Yes. But you can only do it fully at certain times . . . so it can be harder. Unless you’re really, really good. Like me.”

  I rein in a grin. I want to tell her well-played. But we wound up back in this barbed-wire boat after too many dirty innuendos that went too far. “So we don’t need to move the seat back as much as we planned?”

  “Nope. The network must have given us his glamour height by mistake, not his real height. So we slice off two inches,” she says, and I cringe, picturing her as a demon barber, ready to cut.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Just a little uncomfortable with the juxtaposition of the word slice next to inches.”

  She rolls her eyes. Their shade is lighter now, like a walnut. I need to develop a cheat sheet to read her emotions, but I think this color corresponds to amused. “You have to know I’m not a woman who likes less inches. It pains me, too.”

  My jaw nearly comes unhinged, but I resist the urge to tell her that with me, she’d get all the inches she wants and then some. I resist it with another scalding drink of coffee.

  She takes a sip of hers. Her nose crinkles, and her lips curl in clear dislike.

  “I take it your tastes haven’t changed?”

  She shakes her head and sets down the coffee on a workbench. My heart sinks the littlest bit. I wanted her to like the coffee, or at least to have another sip. To give it a chance.

  Maybe to give something else a chance. Someone.

  I shake off that thought.

  She’s all business now. “We should call David and tell him about the discrepancy.”

  I flash back to the comments I made to Sam when he went out with Karen at John Smith Rides, then to my own concerns about getting too cozy with someone who works for my main rival. “All business” is how I should behave, too.

  “Absolutely. And I’m impressed with your attention to detail,” I say.

  After all, lack of attention to detail on the Mustang is what got her into trouble with me years ago.

  “I’ve had to learn from my mistake,” she says, an emphasis on mistake.

  And it’s unmistakable that she’s referring to my comment during the tub incident.

  24

  Henley’s To-Do List

  * * *

  —Give him a piece of my mind.

  25

  Henley plays cameraperson as I work on the seat adjustments. During a quick call to update David on the inch issue—he apologized profusely for giving us the glamour height—he asked if we’d be willing to shoot a DIY-style video today on our work. “Though, please don’t reveal his real height,” he told us.

  And so the girl I got off to a week ago thanks to Bubble-Bath-Nipplegate is capturing me on her cell phone for all posterity.

  “Tell us about the seat, Mr. Summers.”

  I give an overview of the plans for it, keeping the details straightforward and the height close to the vest, per David’s request. Even though there’s no love lost between car-build reality shows and me, I don’t mind these promos. The work is real, and we’re not asked to crank the metal music or talk like streetwise presenters. As I finish the explanation, I add, “And these cars are made for drivers who are average height and build.”

  “But Brick is tall and broad. He’s a big man, right?”

  I nod. “That’s why we need to customize the seat.”

  “Besides,” Henley quips from next to her cell phone, “you know what they say about big men?”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What do they say about big men?”

  She pauses, wiggles an eyebrow, and then performs a pretend drumroll with one hand. “A big man needs a big seat.”

  “That he does.”

  She taps her phone, ending the video. She drops the device back into her jeans. “You thought I was going to say something inappropriate?”

  “Gee, Queen of Inches, I wonder why I’d think that?”

  She winks. “I thought the network would enjoy a little fun banter between us. But we can go back to hating each other now.”

  I sigh heavily as we work on the seat, crouching close to each other by the driver’s side. “I don’t hate you, Henley.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  She’s mostly quiet the rest of the day, and so am I. We become the living, breathing definition of all business as we tackle this car.

  When it’s time to wrap up in the early evening, she grabs her purse and heads to the restroom. When she returns, her hair is thicker and fuller than before, and her lips shine with red gloss. She takes a deep breath then speaks in an even tone. “I have a question for you.”

  “Have at it.”

  “Did it surprise you that I could solve a problem?”

  “Huh?” I ask as I gather the tools and put them away.

  “You acted surprised that I figured out the issue with the seat.”

  I shake my head as I sort the wrenches into their drawers. “No. I wasn’t surprised you figured it out.”

  “You seemed shocked.” Her pitch rises.

  “Well, I wasn’t.” My voice tightens.

  “Is it because you really never thought I would amount to anything?”

  I blink. “Are you insane? I always thought you were crazy talented.”

  “You didn’t promote me because of one mistake on the Mustang. But maybe it wasn’t about one mistake. Maybe it was that you never thought I was good enough.”

  I shake my head, my jaw clenching. “You went out and proved me wrong then, so why do you care what I thought?”

  “That’s a good question, isn’t it?” She taps her chin. “Why do I care?”

  I park my hands on my hips. “You tell me.”

  She shakes her head and walks toward the rear of the Lambo, then swivels around and paces back. As I snap a tool drawer closed, she enters my line of sight. I straighten, and she’s standing right in front of me, her eyes brimming with red-hot pissed-off-ness.

  Fuck the color wheel. She’s a forest fire right now, branches and tree trunks snapping to the ground in a blaze. She bites out the next words. “There’s something I need to say to you.”

  I tense because this can’t be good. I lean against the hood of the Challenger. “Say it.”

  “Can you stop making insinuations about what I do after hours?”

  I furrow my brow. “What are you talking about?”

  She levels a hard stare at me. “You made the boyfriend comment at Thalia’s. You thought I was calling some guy when I was actually peeing and calling my brother. Earlier, you made some sort of insinuation about what I was doing at the Hudson because I have a notepad from the hotel. Are you obsessed with my nighttime activities?”

  “No,” I scoff, rolling my eyes for good measure. “I don’t think of what you do at night. Or during the day either.”

  It’s a bald-faced lie. I’ve surpassed my recommended daily allowance of thoughts about one woman ever since she returned to town.

  “Good. Because you shouldn’t be thinking of what I’m doing.” She flicks her hair off her shoulder. My eyes follow her hand, watching every move she makes.

  A waft of something that smells like spring apples floats by. Did she spray perfume on her neck when she was in the restroom? My mouth waters, and my pulse pounds in my ears. The woman looks and smells absolutely sexy at five in the evening after working on a car all day—from mechanic to sexpot in one quick restroom trip.

  Reality smacks me in the gut. She probably has a date tonight. She’s probably seeing whoever she screwed at the Hudson last night. My jaw tightens. My fists clench.

  That’s why she’s laying
down the law with me. So I can stay the fuck out of her personal life. And you know what? That’s exactly where I need to be.

  Out.

  I shrug, like this conversation is pointless. “I’m not thinking at all about what you do.”

  “Good.” She raises that stubborn little chin. “Because I’m not thinking about what you do.”

  But I am thinking of that little streak of grease on her chin that I just noticed. I picture her meeting her date with that dirt on her face. Even I’m not that much of an asshole. I step closer, bring my thumb to my tongue, and wet it. She watches me curiously.

  “You have . . .” I point in the direction of the streak.

  She lifts her hand to wipe it.

  “Don’t do that,” I say, harshly. “You’ll smudge it and look stupid.”

  I bring my thumb to her face. Her big brown eyes follow my hand. Those eyes sparkle, and up close like this they darken. But not in that angry way I’ve seen. It’s different now, as if they’re blazing as she watches every move I make. When the pad of my thumb presses against her cheek, her breath hitches.

  As I rub my thumb over her skin, a small gasp of air follows, then she clamps her lips shut.

  Back and forth I rub, removing the streak. She’s inches from me now, so close I can tell she sprayed the spring apple perfume on her collarbone. So near I can smell her cinnamon breath.

  My pulse thunders.

  When I finish, I don’t let go of her face. I cradle her jaw in my hand.

  It’s her move.

  And she makes it.

  26

  She leans into my hand, and her lips part the slightest bit.

  I crack.

  I slam my mouth to hers.

  I don’t take my time. I don’t ease into it. My lips crush hers, and I kiss her as if it’s all I’ve wanted to do since the first time I saw her slide out from under a car in my garage. Since she sauntered up to me at the show weeks ago. Since the night in my tub.

  I kiss her as if I’ve suffered without kissing her. She kisses me back the same way.

  We aren’t gentle. We aren’t slow. We touch with fire and anger. She opens her mouth, and I sweep my tongue across hers, groaning as I devour her taste.

  She’s fresh and cinnamony, and it strikes me that she brushed her teeth in the restroom. The fact that I don’t know if she did it for me or wherever she’s going next makes me crush her lips harder. I grab her face, clasping her cheeks roughly as I back her up to the Challenger and shove her against the hood.

  Her hands slide up my chest, and lust licks my veins. She travels higher, roping her fingers in my hair then tugging on the strands to bring my mouth even closer to her—such a hungry little thing.

  I consume her mouth, getting drunk on her cinnamon taste, craving more of it. Jamming my thigh against hers, I push her legs open.

  Then I stop, my breath coming in harsh puffs. “I’m not thinking about what you’re doing tonight,” I hiss as I grip her hips and hike her up onto the hood.

  “I’m not thinking about what you’re doing either,” she fires back with her smart mouth. Those lips are no longer glossy. They’re bruised and swollen. Good. I want to mark her. I want her to smell like me. I want her to wear the evidence of this moment all over her body.

  I drag my fingers through her hair, yanking it. She emits a needy gasp. “So fucking pretty,” I growl as I bring my mouth down on that delicious neck. I kiss the column of her throat so hard I’m sure there will be a sandpaper trail from my stubble on her delicate skin. And she doesn’t seem to mind at all. She moans as I bring my mouth down on the hollow of her throat. I lick her there. Frantically, she opens her legs wider, as if she’s trying to draw me in to the V. Heeding her call, I shove my body against her, my hard-on rigid against her thigh. She draws a sharp breath as I press into her.

  “I don’t care what you were doing at the Hudson,” I say, as I bring my teeth to her neck and bite.

  A yelp rings out, but she wraps her legs tighter around me. I grind into her, letting her know how much I want to fuck her, letting her feel how hard she makes me. I bet she’s so fucking wet. Whatever grasp I had on common sense unravels in each rough press of my mouth to her neck. I bite, and I suck, and I devour her neck, keeping her hair wrapped tightly in my fist.

  I grab her chin roughly in my hand, and meet her eyes. They’re dazed, glossy. She’s panting. “You fucking drive me crazy,” I mutter.

  “And you’re nothing but a cruel bastard,” she says, narrowing her eyes as she scrapes at my hair again with her fingers. The lion in her is fierce tonight. She jerks my head back then pushes my face down, down, down and right between her tits. “So damn cruel.”

  I yank up her T-shirt and bury my face in the most wonderful place in the universe. Jesus Christ, her tits are heaven. I shove the cup of her black lace bra to the side—of course she wears black—and bring my teeth down on her nipple. She cries out again.

  “This nipple drove me insane in the tub.”

  She freezes. “Is that why you kicked me out?”

  I raise my face and lock eyes with her. She looks so fucking desperate right now. “I couldn’t take it. You moved in the tub, and I saw it, and I had to fight off every instinct to bite it.”

  “Do it now,” she urges. Before she even says the last word, my mouth is wrapped around her, and she is as fucking delicious as I imagined. I moan with her in my mouth, my dick growing impossibly harder as I draw that tight peak between my teeth. I suck as she curls her hands around my skull.

  I come up for air. Her brown irises are wild now, and she looks like an animal.

  “You were such a jerk that night.” She drags her hands over my T-shirt, lingering on my pecs. “You need to take this off now for being such a complete ass.”

  I grip the back of my shirt, yanking it off.

  Her mouth falls open in the sexiest expression I’ve ever seen. “You’re so . . .”

  She doesn’t finish the thought. She runs her fingers over my bare skin, exploring my pecs, my abs, my arms. Her nails travel along my bicep, tracing the outline of the bands there, then the hawk on my shoulder. When she returns to my chest, she draws the Celtic tattoo on my right pec. My skin sizzles in the wake of her touch. Her fingertips light me up. They send electricity everywhere.

  I tug at the waistband of her jeans. “These are really fucking inconvenient, Henley.”

  “Why?” Her voice is feathery.

  I bring my mouth to her ear, nip the earlobe, and whisper, “Because I’m going to fuck you right now. I’m going to fuck you and make you come hard, and you need to take off these stupid jeans.”

  I back up and rustle around in my back pocket for my wallet. I flip it open and grab a condom. She gives me her yes in her busy hands—they unsnap the top button of her jeans. Then she unzips and shimmies them down her ass.

  “Wait,” I say, as I put the condom on the yellow hood.

  “Why?”

  I grab my shirt. “Sit on this.”

  I slide the cotton under her ass. Then I help her, jerking one jean leg down to her boot.

  “Fucking combat boots,” I mutter as I regard the long string of laces on her shoes.

  “Idiot, they have a zipper.” She reaches and pulls the zipper down one side. I tug off the boot, tossing it on the floor, then pull off that jean leg only. No patience for both. She slides her black panties down that leg, and I can’t fucking breathe for a second.

  “Holy . . .”

  She’s so fucking wet and beautiful. Jesus Christ. Her pussy is divine. Pink and slick and utterly, fucking enticing, like the most delicious dessert ever. I can’t resist. I have to eat dessert first. I scoop my hands under her thighs, spreading them, and I bring my face between her legs.

  “Oh God, Max,” she moans as I slide my tongue down her wetness. Her hands grip my head. She digs her nails in, and I love it.

  One more lick, up and up, and then I suck on that delicious rise of her clit. It’s hard and soaked,
and she jerks against me as I feast on it.

  A long, low moan comes from her mouth. It’s my name. Then she purrs, “Do it again.”

  I planned to fuck her. Hard and furiously. I swear I did. I had no intention to take a timeout to eat her. But her pussy is too fucking wonderful to deny. I flick my tongue against her clit, and she jerks against me again. She pulls my hair hard, yanking me even closer. “This is what you could have had that night in the tub,” she tells me.

  I break contact for a second and meet her hot gaze, processing the enormity of what she just said—she wanted me that night, too. “It’s what I had when I jacked off after you left. Let’s see if you taste as good as you did in my filthy imagination.”

  I return to her and drag my tongue down, lapping up all this decadent wetness as I go. A long, feral noise comes from her mouth. It sounds like please.

  Ordinarily, I’d tease her. Make her beg. But, for all intents and purposes, she is already. Besides, just this second, I have no tolerance for games. Not hers, and not my own.

  All I want now is to have her.

  I lick my way back up her pussy to her clit, sucking on that little hard diamond of pleasure until she bucks against my mouth. She chants my name. She grips my hair. She rocks against me. Her fingers tighten against my skull. And then she fucks my face on the hood of the car until she comes like a rock star in under two minutes.

  My name has never sounded so good as it does when Henley Rose Marlowe falls apart on my mouth. Her breathing is wild and her chest is heaving, and she’s absolutely glowing from her orgasm.

  “I was wrong when I imagined how good you’d taste.” I am nothing but pride and desire as I straighten, unzip my jeans, and take out my cock. “You taste even better.” I grab the condom and roll it on as she comes down from her high. “And you come fast, tiger. Guess you like what I do to you.”

  She opens her eyes only to narrow them at me. “It’s been a while. That’s all.”