by Tracy Wolff
This time when he pulls away, he doesn’t rest his forehead against mine. Instead, he reaches for one of the bakery boxes sitting next to us in the sand.
“I’ve got to get you to work in a little while,” he says, lifting the pink lid. “And I still owe you breakfast.”
“I think what you already gave me was better than breakfast.” The words slip out and for a second he just stares at me, dumbfounded. I’m turning about twenty-seven different shades of red when he throws his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs.
“Oh my God!” I whine, burying my face in my hands. “I can’t believe I just said that!”
“I’m glad you said it,” Nic says when he finally gets himself under control. “No man’s going to argue with being told that making out with him is better than French chocolate.”
“Are you trying to embarrass me?”
“I think you did that all on your own,” he teases as he drops a kiss on my still burning cheek. “Now, close your eyes.”
“Why?”
He rolls his eyes. “Because I said so.”
“I don’t…”
He kisses me again, this time on the tip of my nose. “Trust me, Jordan.”
“Trust isn’t exactly my strong suit,” I answer. “In case you haven’t noticed.”
His gorgeous eyes cloud over and immediately I feel bad for ruining the moment. Especially since Nic has given me no reason not to trust him—at least not since he kidnapped me out of that parking lot. In fact, he’s treated me really well, even when I was doing my best to maim him in that parking garage.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, closing my eyes in an effort to show him that I mean it. As I do, a skitter of unease works its way down my spine, but I ignore it. I’ve spent the last three years jumping at shadows and refusing to trust anyone. It’s a lonely way to live and I’m sick of it. Sick of the power it still gives them over me, sick of the chance at happiness it strips from me. I don’t know why, but it feels like I can trust Nic. More, it feels like if I don’t trust him now, over something simple like this, then maybe I’ll never be able to trust anyone ever again.
“It’s okay,” he tells me, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I assure him, keeping my eyes steadfastly closed. Long moments pass where Nic doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t so much as breathe. I know, because I’m still pressed against him, my body curled into the hardness of his like I belong there. Like I belong here, with him.
It’s a crazy thought—and a terrifying one, especially considering the little I know about him. And the magnitude of what I don’t. Still, I don’t open my eyes. Still, I don’t change my mind. Instead I whisper, “Please.”
The word hangs in the air between us, the fragility of it—of this—trembling like a leaf in the wind as I wait for Nic’s response.
It isn’t long in coming, his free arm sliding around my waist. Pulling me closer, closer, closer, until I can feel his heat, his breath, the wild beat of his heart. And then he’s bending forward, taking my mouth with his, licking his way deep inside of me.
I let my head fall back, let myself open to him, but he lets my mouth go seconds after he first takes it.
“What—”
He cuts me off with a finger to my lips, a bite to my jaw. “Open up,” he says, his voice low and growly and hot, so hot. I obey without question.
Moments later, his finger slides inside my mouth, slick with something cold and sugary and creamy. Instinctively, I close my mouth around it, sucking his finger deep into my mouth, my tongue swirling in circles as I pull the sweet cream deeper into my throat before swallowing it down.
Nic groans a little, deep in his chest, but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. Instead, I hear the sharp rustle of a pastry liner over the roar of the ocean.
“Open again,” he says and I do. Of course I do. In this moment I’m helpless to refuse him anything.
This time what he puts in my mouth is light and flaky and buttery, with just a tinge of the sharp sweetness of dark chocolate. It’s delicious, though not as much fun as the rich éclair cream, and I make a soft sound of appreciation as I slowly chew and swallow.
When I’m done, I don’t wait for Nic to instruct me. Instead, I open my mouth eagerly, wondering what’s going to come next. His laugh is low and dark, nearly drowning out the sound of him rustling in the pastry box again. Nearly, but not quite, so I’m expecting it when he raises his hand to my mouth and deposits something cool and firm on my tongue.
I bite down, feel the tart juice of the strawberry explode in my mouth. A few drops slip through my lips and dribble down my chin. I go to wipe them off, but Nic is there first, licking up the drops.
The need to see him is suddenly overwhelming and I start to open my eyes. But he must be watching me closely because I’ve barely cracked my lids when his hand is there, covering my eyes. “Not yet,” he whispers to me, his breath hot against my ear.
I nod because to do anything else is to disrupt this fragile thing between us and I’m not ready to do that. Not ready to have this—whatever it is—end quite yet. The clock is ticking, the minutes counting down until I have to leave for work. I won’t hurry that end along any faster than it is already coming.
“Again,” he tells me, tapping a finger gently against my lips. I open for him on command.
This time the treat is heavy on my tongue, hard and a little buttery. At least until I bite down and the sweetly sour tang of lemon custard explodes in my mouth, mixing with the flakiness of what feels like pie crust.
It takes a moment for me to swallow it, and by the time I do, Nic is holding something else to my mouth. Bread, I think, as he places it on my tongue. I bite down, expecting the yeasty taste of baguette. Instead, there’s the sharp tang of cheddar followed by heat. Lots and lots of heat.
“What—” I gasp, my eyes flying open as I suck air in through my mouth in an effort to quiet the painful spiciness.
“Habanero brioche,” Nic tells me. And then his lips are there, on mine. I start to pull away—it burns—until I realize that Nic is pouring cool water from his mouth to mine. I take the offering greedily, sipping every last drop from his lips, his tongue, the corners of his mouth.
“More,” I say, licking lips that are still on fire.
Nic gives me more, a second mouthful and then a third before the burning finally becomes manageable. Or, more accurately, until I’m so caught up in the taste and feel of him on my lips that I no longer care if my mouth is on fire.
This time when Nic pulls away, he reaches for an éclair that has already been split in half. He scoops the cream out of the center with his finger, then lifts his finger to my lips. He paints my lips with the soothing cream, then scoops out more and gestures for me to open my mouth. I follow his instructions, wrapping my tongue around his finger and nearly whimpering with relief when the last of the burn finally dissipates.
“I told you trust is an issue with me and this is what you do?” I demand after licking the last of the cream from my lips.
“You didn’t like it?”
“The brioche? It was good, but seriously, some warning would have been nice.”
“Not the brioche,” he tells me, smearing more cream over my lips. “The cure.”
My answer is to bite the tip of his finger hard enough to sting, then to suck it deep into my mouth. His eyes go hazy at the contact and I have to admit I like knowing that I can do that to him. That I can make him as hot for me as I obviously am for him.
He pulls his finger out of my mouth slowly—so, so slowly—and for a moment I’m certain that he’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me, need him to kiss me the same way I need air in my lungs and blood in my veins.
But this time he doesn’t do it. Instead, his glances at his phone just as the alarm goes off. “Time to take you back,” he says and there’s real regret in his tone.
I want to argue, want to tell him we still have time, but a glance at my phone tells me we’re already cutting it close. And since I pretty much disappeared in the middle of my shift yesterday with absolutely no explanation, the last thing I need is to be late today. At least if I want to keep my job. And keep my boss from calling the cops and reporting me missing…
I let Nic pull me to my feet and brush the sand off my jeans before gathering up our coffee cups while he gets the pastry boxes. It only takes a minute and then I’m following him to the stairs that will take us back to the street. Back to a reality I’m not quite sure I’m ready to face.
But it’s not like I have a choice, and besides, I’ve faced way more difficult realities than this. Still, there’s a part of me that wants to say to hell with work, to hell with school, to hell with everything that isn’t Nic and me on this beach, in this moment.
Which is ridiculous—I barely know him. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as we tromp back to his car. As I slide into the passenger seat. As he pulls into traffic and speeds away from what’s beginning to feel more and more like an idyll out of time.
I don’t say anything as we speed down the 52 and he doesn’t, either. He does hold my hand, though, even when he’s shifting gears. What should be a half hour drive ends up taking barely fifteen minutes and Nic turns into the diner parking lot a full thirteen minutes before my shift starts.
He pulls into a parking spot toward the back of the diner, then turns the car off and comes around to help me out of the car. Not that I need the help, but in his own way Nic Medina is quite the gentleman.
It’s one of the things I really like about him, how he looks all badass yet has impeccable manners when it comes to dealing with me. Too bad I’ll probably never see him again after today. The thought depresses me more than it should. Then again, it isn’t every day a guy can make me come without so much as sliding a hand inside my clothes.
“Am I going to see you again?” The words come out against my will and I spend more than a few seconds wishing I could cut out my tongue—or at least turn back time by about thirty seconds. I mean, who would notice?
Instead of answering my question, he asks one of his own. “Is that what you want? To see me again?”
In the last twenty-four hours, he’s kidnapped me, made me miss work I couldn’t afford to miss, stolen my car, and left me in a huge financial mess that I’m not sure how to get out of. What I should tell him is no, it doesn’t matter to me at all, I was just trying to being polite.
But that’s not the truth. Any more than my summation of the last twenty-four hours is the truth. Because while Nic did all of those things, he’s also done so much more. It’s that more that has me so confused, that has me staring up at him with a million different answers trembling on my lips and no way to decide which one I want to say.
He seems to understand my dilemma, though, because he doesn’t speak, either. Instead, he reaches a hand up, cups my cheek. Skims his thumb back and forth against my jaw.
His touch sends shivers up and down my spine and my breath hitches in my chest as he lowers his head, touches his lips to mine. Again and again and again. He’s kissing me. Devouring me. Destroying me. Taking everything I am, everything I have to give.
I whimper at the thought, and he lifts his head at that first, small sound of my distress. His eyes search mine and I’m not sure what he sees there, but whatever it is, it makes him drop his hands from my face. Makes him take a few steps back. Makes him look at me with something that looks a lot like regret.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him, desperate to say something to take that look away. To fill up the silence that suddenly stretches between us like the frigid, frozen tundra. “And for breakfast. It was delicious.”
“Even the brioche?” he asks, brows raised.
I think back to his lips on mine, to the way the water tasted sweeter, somehow, coming from him instead of the bottle. “Especially the brioche.”
His eyes darken and for a minute I’m sure he’s going to kiss me again. Instead, he reaches for my hand. He uncurls my fingers from the loose fist they’ve been in since he let me go, and presses his keys into the center of my palm.
Then he steps back, starts to turn away.
I grab his arm with my free hand. “Hey! What are you doing?”
“I owe you a car.”
I’m so dumbfounded that I can do nothing but stare at him for long seconds. It’s not until he starts to walk away that I finally find my voice again. “This car is worth ten times what mine was. And besides, I’m pretty sure it’s that crooked cop who owes me a car.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think he’s planning on doing anything about that.”
“So, what? You are?”
He doesn’t answer this time, just keeps walking.
“Hey!” I call after him. “You can’t just give me a car! Especially not a car like this.”
He still doesn’t answer.
“Nic!” I call, just as a low-slung Dodge Viper comes whipping around the corner and into the parking lot. “We need to talk about this!”
He turns then, flashes me that damn dimple. “So call me. I left my number in the car.” Then he’s climbing into the passenger seat of the Dodge and slamming the door behind him.
My last glimpse of Nic Medina is of him glancing back at me as the Dodge speeds through the parking lot and pulls into traffic without so much as the smallest hesitation.
Chapter 12
Nic
“Don’t say it,” I tell Heath as he looks my way for the third time since I got in his car.
“Don’t say what?” he asks, the fake innocence just rolling off him.
I don’t answer. But then, I don’t have to. We both know what’s going through his head.
He lasts about twelve seconds in the silence—which, if I’m honest, is about eight seconds longer than I expected him to.
“Don’t ask how your date went with the lovely waitress-in-distress?”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Oh, yeah? The lipstick all over your face says differently.”
He’s full of shit—I know he’s full of shit—but I still can’t resist a quick glance in the side mirror just to make sure. Of course¸ he’s watching for it and he just cackles like a madman as he pulls onto the freeway.
“There’s no lipstick, man.”
“Maybe not, but you thought there might be. Which makes it a fuckload more of a date than you’re letting on.”
“We’re seriously doing this? Are we fourteen, now, swapping stories in the locker room?”
“You never swapped stories in the locker room.”
“So what the fuck makes you think I’m going to start now?” I demand, rearranging my face into the don’t-fuck-with-me look I perfected while in prison.
Heath isn’t fazed. That’s the problem with all my good friends being from my pre-prison days. Most of them remember me from kindergarten. Kind of hard to intimidate someone who watched you cry as they helped you search for your lost teddy bear.
“So, did she like the car? That had to score you major points, right?” Heath roars off the freeway and takes the first corner at sixty. His car doesn’t even hiccup. Then again, it shouldn’t. Jace and I worked on this baby ourselves.
“I didn’t give her the car to score points.” I gave her the car because I couldn’t stand the idea of her riding the bus every day, couldn’t stand the idea of her scrimping and saving for yet another car on a waitress’s salary. My mom did the scrimp-and-save bit for everything we ever had and it killed her way too early. No fucking way I’m going to let that same thing happen to Jordan.
I don’t stop to ask why it matters so much—or why watching her come on the beach this morning was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Stopping there, when everything inside of me was screaming for me to take her, to fuck her, to make her mine in the most basic way, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But Jordan deserves more t
han a quick fuck on an open beach. And she sure as shit deserves more than me.
The last thing a girl like her needs is an ex-con who has trouble playing by the rules. Especially when it’s obvious she’s trying so hard to follow those same rules.
I told her to call me if she wanted, but I’m pretty sure I’ll never hear from Jordan again. Which is a good thing, I remind myself as Heath pulls into the parking lot at Hotwired. The last thing I need right now is to try to balance a girl like that with the total fuckup my life has somehow become overnight. No, it’s better if she doesn’t call. Better if she just takes the car and stays the fuck away. Less of a chance anyone will get hurt that way.
With that thought front and center in my head, I climb out of Heath’s car. And if I slam the door a little too hard behind me—well, then, who’s going to call me on it?
I head in through the garage bays, planning on hassling Jace to see how far he’s gotten since I’ve been gone. But he’s nowhere to be found, nothing but an empty bottle of Dr Pepper and a half-eaten bag of chocolate chip cookies left at his work station to tell me he was even here.
After nodding at the others—all of whom are either underneath or inside one of the various cars currently taking up my bays—I storm into the main office, intent on finding Jace. But I’ve barely got the door closed behind me before Lena is in my face.
“Don’t even think about going into that break room after him!” she tells me. “He’s been working all night and he’s tired. He needs to sleep for a couple hours.”
“He can sleep after he figures out what the fuck is embedded in that drive. We’re running out of time.”
“And he’s running out of everything else. Not everyone has the stamina to work round the clock like you do. Give him a break, Nic.”
I grind my teeth, frustrated because I know she’s right. And equally frustrated because I know that I can’t let that matter. Yeah, my best friend is dead on his feet. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have to break the encryption as soon as fucking humanly possible. If I know Anderson—and I do—it won’t be long before the bastard will show up here, either demanding another favor or planning to clean up loose ends. Either way, I need to be fucking ready for him.
