Slow Play (The Rules #3)(13)

I shove the wet pile of dresses into his arms and run to open the passenger side door, sliding into the seat and slamming myself inside. The car is warm and smells faintly of spice and man.

Don’t do it. You’re not a freak. You’re not…

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes. Freaking Tristan smells amazing. He’s listening to some nineties grunge station on the satellite radio but the volume is turned down low. The interior is immaculate. Black leather seats with silver trim. I assumed his car would be a dump with empty beer cans rolling around on the floorboard but I guess I was wrong.

Why this makes me happy, I’m not sure.

Pushing off my soggy hood, I try to smooth out my damp, tangled hair, pulling down the visor so I can study myself in the lit mirror.

Gah. I look like straight hell. My hair is a wreck, my cheeks are bright pink from the cold and there are black smudges of mascara under my eyes. I wipe them away as best I can, slamming the visor back up when the driver’s side door opens and Tristan climbs into the car. He turns to look at me without saying a word and I study him, my breath lodged in my throat.

His presence seems to overwhelm the small confines of his car and I press my lips together, struggling to say something. But no words come. All I can do is stare, my gaze eating him up. His damp hair, the way it curls around his ears and neck. The scruff on his jaw and chin, the shape of his mouth. His lips are…mesmerizing. Almost the same size, the bottom lip is a little fuller and when his tongue sneaks out to lick the very center of that perfect bottom lip, my brain just—shuts off.

“Want me to drive you home?” His voice breaks through the fog shrouding my mind and I sit up straighter, smooth a useless hand over my hopeless hair.

“Yeah, um. That would be great.” I face straight ahead, willing myself to become mesmerized with the rhythmic back and forth of the windshield wipers, not Tristan’s lips.

“Where do you live?” He asks, sounding amused at my expense. Or maybe I’m just being defensive.

I rattle off my address and he comes to a stop at a light, asking me for it again so he can plug it into his phone. I wrap my arms around my middle as we wait for the light to change, a shiver coursing through me and he sends me a slide glance before reaching over and practically grabbing my knee.

But he’s going for some switch that he clicks onto high.

“Seat warmer,” he explains to me when I meet his gaze. “You’re cold.”

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“And wet,” he adds. I chance a quick look at him to see if there’s double meaning there—maybe I’m the only one who’s a perv—but he looks completely innocent. And totally concerned. “You should take the sweatshirt off.”

“Yeah, right. You just want to see me strip.”

“That sweatshirt looks pretty heavy.”

I say nothing because he’s right. The sweatshirt is cold and wet and heavy and freaking miserable. When the light turns green and his attention is solely focused on driving, I work my way out of the soaking sweatshirt, peeling it off my body and letting it fall onto the floorboard with a wet plop.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Sorry about getting your floor mats so wet.” Men are particular about their cars and this is a nice one. Like, one my father would’ve admired if not flat out owned if he could.

But he can’t. He had to sell all of his fancy cars to help pay back the money he embezzled from his clients.

“Don’t worry about the water. I just can’t believe how wet your hoodie is. You must be freezing.” He leans over and cranks up the heat.

“Thanks.” I relax in the seat, the seat warmer working its magic along with the heater blasting hot air on my face, slowly making me feel drowsy. I stare out the window, watching the rain fall fast and heavy and I’m thankful that I’m not riding the stinky city bus or worse, still waiting outside for that stupid bus to show up.

Instead, I’m in Tristan’s very nice, very expensive car and he’s driving me home.

Life is weird.

I pull up in front of the address Alexandria gave me, a small nondescript house in an older neighborhood not far from campus with a crappy yard and overgrown rosebushes lining the front, just beneath the windows. Typical off campus housing, I’m sure she has an abundance of roommates and hardly any privacy.

In other words, she lives like a savage.

“Honey, we’re home,” I murmur as I pull into the driveway.

Alexandria doesn’t make a sound.

Putting the car into park, I turn to find her body relaxed, her head turned to the side, facing the window, her hair falling across her cheek. Eyes shut, her lips parted. Sound asleep.

Pretty. Quiet. Not mouthing off or protesting or frowning at me. I like her like this. I study her unabashedly, my gaze roving over her dark blonde hair, her flawless creamy skin, those rosebud lips that would tempt a saint to kiss them. Just once.

Just to see what she tastes like.

I lean back in my seat and take a deep breath. I’m thinking f*cking crazy thoughts. She hates me. She’s more trouble than she’s worth. I’d only f*ck her and leave her anyway so she’d hate me even more when it was all said and done.

Like Shep and Gabe used to say before they ditched me, I don’t do relationships. I won’t be swayed. Those two *s I call my best friends can go ahead and fall deeper in love with their girls. Get engaged, get married, have a couple of brats and live that boring ass life every other sucker thinks he wants.