Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(48)
The windows, closed against the rain, were completely fogged, blocking out the world they couldn’t see anyway.
She tilted her head and let him pepper kisses on her throat while her hands grasped his arms and squeezed the hard curves of his biceps. Up to his neck, fingers into his hair, her legs trembling already, and her breasts aching with the need to be touched.
Thankfully, he seemed to read her mind, climbing easily over the barrier, barely breaking the kiss.
She laughed into his neck. “We didn’t make it twenty-four hours.”
“Not the first time either.” He slid lower, getting his mouth into the vee of her T-shirt and his hand underneath it with little effort. He stroked over the satin of her bra, her senses exploding with pleasure as his body pressed against hers, hard and hot.
A whimper escaped as she pressed against his erection, and sparks shot through her as he dragged her top over her head. “I’ve never…” Felt anything like this.
“Never what?” He snapped off her bra with ease and slid the straps off her. “Never did it in the back of a Ford Prefect?”
“Any car.”
He smiled and kissed her, tossing her bra into the front seat. “First stranger sex. First car sex. First hopeless sex. I like being your first for things.”
“You just like sex.”
“Mmmm.” He lowered his head to take one of her breasts into his mouth, but that just meant she couldn’t think at all. Instead, she clutched his head, holding it against her, guiding him from one sweet spot to the another.
They rocked their hips, already thrumming with the same rhythm and need, his hard-on rubbing exactly where she needed and wanted it. She rolled over the ridge again, the contact like electricity, sparking and twisting.
The muscles between her legs clutched, and she broke the kiss to try to get her breath as an orgasm started firing through her, throbbing and unstoppable, his hands all over her while he let her ride him until she felt like the whole world was…rolling away.
“What the f*ck?” Mal shot up, stealing his body and making Chessie cry out in abject frustration. “What’s going on?”
“Um…if I have to explain it to you—”
He vaulted over the front seat and opened the door to the sound of the steady rain hitting the car…the car that was floating.
“Flash flood!” He turned the key, and the engine screamed…but didn’t turn over. Of course not, Chessie thought. If water had gotten into the fuel line, this car would never start.
“Damn it!” He revved again. Nothing. “Get up here, Chessie. I’ll get out and push.”
She scrambled to the driver’s seat, vaguely aware she had no top on, taking his place as he jumped outside into a calf-high mud lake.
“Keep trying to turn it over,” he ordered, then disappeared into the darkness. She turned the key again, tapping her foot on the sticky, useless accelerator while she patted around the front seat and found her glasses.
This car would never…
Move. It moved. She squinted into the rearview, but the glass was still fogged up.
Furious at the weather, the car, the situation, she rolled her window down a few inches, ignoring the rain that came in, desperate for a clear look.
“Try it again!” he called.
She twisted the key and worked the gas pedal, feeling the whole vehicle moving, but not because the flooded engine was on. And then the rear window finally cleared enough for her to see a sight she’d never forget.
Mal, drenched in rain and mud, his shirt sticking to every impressive muscle, his body lit red by the rear lights. He clenched his jaw and stretched his arms and pushed the damn Prefect through the water.
Like some kind of god.
Desire and admiration ripped through her, punching her in the gut and the heart just as he rolled them out of the rushing water. On drier land, the engine sputtered, shuddered, and finally caught, and Mal yanked the driver’s door open.
Wordlessly, she slid to the side like the whole thing was choreographed, giving him the driver’s seat. He pressed the gas, and they shot forward, spitting rooster tails on either side of the car.
“We’re not stopping again until we get there,” he announced.
Chessie clutched the seat, wishing like hell the old beast had a seat belt she could drag over her bare breasts. “And you wonder why I don’t want to work in the field.”
“Like I said, gotta go with the flow. Or flood, as the case may be.”
An utterly unfamiliar sensation thrummed through her, as strong as the sexual desire that had just rocked her, and every bit as thrilling. She didn’t dare admit it, she couldn’t. It was so off plan.
She liked the rush of this job. A lot. And, holy shit, she liked Mal Harris more than any man she’d ever met.
* * *
Roger Drummand leaned against the stiff leather sofa outside his father’s office, tapping his shoes on polished oak floors and glancing out the colonial-style panes to see the bare trees of early December in Georgetown.
Why the hell had he been summoned here? It couldn’t be good. It couldn’t be. If that bitch outed him…
From behind the closed door, he couldn’t hear Bill Drummand’s voice, of course. He was a spy through and through, using only a soft voice and a few well-placed words. He elicited information more than he gave it, and although long retired from his work at the agency, he was, at ninety-one, still interested in everything that went on there.