America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(87)

Or my mouth, for that matter.

And since Sarah’s kissing me back, her hands clutching my shirt, I decide that I’m just going to live right here, in the back of this car, and kiss her—and more—for the rest of my life.

Thank fuck I live in a time when we can order food to be delivered to the back seat of a car.

And when I can meet a total stranger who just might be the love of my life thanks to invisible waves floating through the air to computers in our pockets.

What an awesome world.

The car jerks to a stop, and I realize we’re back at my building.

Huh.

“Do you want to stay here or go upstairs?” I ask her. On a pant. I don’t want to quit kissing her.

Her nose wrinkles, and I realize she probably wasn’t thinking about living in a car just to make out, but now I want to know what she was thinking about.

I can’t read her through all that makeup.

“Upstairs,” I say, and I get distracted by her collarbone, because it’s undoubtedly the shapeliest collarbone in the history of bones. And collars. And it’s right there on display in this dress that I hate despite how pretty it is as far as dresses go, and how much of her collarbones it shows, because she’s not comfortable in it.

Dammit.

I have to get her upstairs and out of this ridiculous getup.

I move so fast she’s gaping at me as I reach across her and fling the car door open. “C’mon. Upstairs. Go.”

“Bossy.”

“I’ll make out with you in the elevator.”

She laughs, then she winces when there’s a distinct ripping noise.

But she’s climbing out. I strip out of my coat and fling it around her shoulders so that wherever she’s ripping, nobody has to see, and we’re not exactly alone here, because we’re being dropped at the front of the building, not the back, or in the garage. I hustle her inside and to my private elevator and hit the button for the penthouse, and then I have my hands on her again.

Her hips. Her ass.

“Oh, no, here.” She swipes her thumb over my mouth.

I must be wearing her lipstick. Not that I mind.

Especially if it means she’s touching me.

“I hate this stuff,” she mutters, and yeah, I hate it too. Not because I’m wearing it, but because all that mascara is obstructing my view of her eyes.

“I want to kiss you until I can’t remember how to breathe.”

Those gorgeous chocolate pools lift to meet my gaze, and I feel like I’ve taken another ten thousand volts to the chest.

So fucking gorgeous.

So fucking perfect.

“It’s the dress,” she says.

“Sarah.” I blow out an impatient breath. “I don’t care what you’re wearing. It’s you.”

Her brows furrow, but she’s wearing a smile as she continues to wipe at my lips. I capture her hand and press kisses to her fingers.

“You make me feel pretty all the time,” she whispers.

“You’re so much more than just pretty.”

We get to the top floor, and I lock the elevator, because hell if I’m letting anyone else in right now. And then I pull Sarah to the kitchen.

“What—” she starts.

Her eyes go round when I pull a pair of scissors out of the island drawer.

“How much do you like this dress?” I ask.

“Zipper!” she shrieks, and there’s one more distinct sound of a seam ripping.

“Hold on, baby, I’ll have you breathing free again in just a minute.” Sure enough, there’s a zipper on the back of her dress. I yank the tab down, and she sucks in a giant breath as the fabric opens.

“Oh my god, that feels so good.”

Her legs are still shrink-wrapped in the dress. “You honestly like this thing?”

“Don’t start, fashion police. I like gold lace, okay? It brings out my eyes.”

“I love your eyes. Especially when they’re not surrounded by insect legs. I’d like your dress better if it wasn’t strangling you.”

She’s laughing as she turns, giving me another look at those shoulder blades, and fuck if I’m not hard in an instant.

Her shoulder blades are just as sexy as her collarbones.

Maybe more so.

So shouldery. And bladey. And covered in soft Sarah skin. And leading down to the curviest ass that I want to stroke and knead all fucking night long.

“The zipper goes lower,” she tells me over her shoulder. “If you can get it…down…”

I stop her before she spins in a circle trying to reach it herself, and I stand behind her and tug her zipper lower, below her mid-back, to her waist, and lower, over the curve of her ass, my hand shaky, my dick aching.

I can’t see her skin lower than her shoulder blades, because it’s all still held in by a nude bodysuit. She casts a furtive glance at the solid wall of windows looking out over the twinkling city lights.

“Mabel, dim the windows,” I say.

“Dimming windows,” my digital assistant says, and the blinds automatically lower from their case in the ceiling.

“Oh my god, that was so hot,” she whispers. “But Mabel’s not spying on us, is she?”

“Mabel, go to sleep.”

“Behave yourself and use a condom,” she replies in her electronic voice. “Night-EE. Night.”