The Feel Good Factor(13)

“I was just thinking how I could give you a ticket for kissing too fast.”

“You don’t like the way I kiss?”

I laugh again, grab her hand, and bring it back to my shaft. “Kitten, I’m so fucking turned on that you’re going to have to lock me in this waffle truck for an hour for my dick to go down. I love everything about the way you kiss. I love that you’re not a slow kisser. I love that you’re ferocious and fiery.” I slide her hand down my length, watching as her eyes go hazy. “I love that you’re as ready for this as I am.”

“Do you think I’m wound up?” Her voice is breathy as she strokes me.

“I bet your panties are soaked and you’re aching between your legs.”

She whimpers, then grabs my jaw and slams my mouth back to hers. “Kiss me hard.”

“As if I’d do anything else.”

I do as the lady asks, devouring her sweet mouth. Our teeth click, our tongues lash, and our breath comes in fast, sharp pants.

I grind against her, and she grinds right back. I half wonder why we’re not fucking right now, but I also have enough brains to know she’s a cop, and even if this truck is on the edge of the market, and even if we’re out of sight, she’s still a bit of a public figure.

But that doesn’t stop me from letting my fingers wander. They slide down her body, over her belly, and to the waistband of her jeans. I slip a hand under her shirt, feeling the soft flesh of her stomach.

“You feel so fucking good.” I unbutton the top button on her jeans.

Her hand darts out, stopping me. “Derek.”

Her tone is 100 percent warning. I heed it, stopping. “What is it?”

“If your hand goes any farther south, I’m going to fuck your fingers.”

My mind officially goes haywire, wires tripping, nerve endings fraying, my brain combusting. “That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said in the history of the world.”

“But we can’t. We have to stop.”

I nod, getting it, even as my cock and fingers have other ideas. I cup her jaw. “How did I do with my appointment? Did I pass?”

Her lips quirk. “With flying colors. The only question now is what category we’re going to enter in.”

“There are categories?”

Her green eyes dance. “Oh yes. Sweetest, most passionate, best reenactment. I’m not sure which one would be best.”

I thread a hand through her hair. “We should practice again. Meet me later.”

“Like on a date?” Her tone drips with skepticism, and I believe I’ve met my non-dating soul mate.

I laugh. “Sounds like you’re about as interested in dating as I am.”

She nods fiercely. “Yes, as in zero.”

“Good, because relationships aren’t my thing these days.”

“That makes two of us.”

“And we don’t need to date to practice for your contest.”

“We absolutely don’t.” She taps her chin, her eyes drifting to a clipboard on the wall. “Let’s see. The contest is in three weeks. We could practice again, say, Thursday night?”

“That’s a long time from now.”

She laughs. “Good. You’ll be even readier then. How about you pick a time and place and text me?” She is my kind of woman. Confident. Bold. Plays zero games. “But make it good, Derek McHotPants.”

“It won’t be good, kitten. It’ll be oh so fucking good your toes will curl.”

“I can’t wait.”

She enters her number into my phone, pecks a kiss to my lips, then kicks me out.

I’ve never been so happy to be shown the door.





9





Perri





“Check this out,” Shaw declares proudly.

At the grill on our parents’ deck that evening, my brother stands next to my father, sliding a spatula under a hamburger.

Dad rolls his hazel eyes. “You’re not going to do this again, are you?”

Shaw nods vigorously as he waggles the burger-laden spatula. “Don’t you trust me, Dad?”

Dad huffs. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s that I absolutely don’t trust you for a hot second not to mess up the most fantastic burgers I’ve made this year.”

Shaw claps Dad on the shoulder—they’re the same height and have been since Shaw was in high school. Six foot forever. Same build too—big. Same sense of humor—sarcastic as hell.

“Dad, I don’t want to hear that kind of negative self-talk. All your burgers are incredible. Say it with me.” Shaw puffs out his chest and adopts a Stuart Smalley tone. “My burgers are good enough, and gosh darn it, people like them.”

“What did I do to deserve this kind of torture?” Dad grabs another spatula and tries to swat Shaw’s burger back onto the grill. I watch from my spot in the Adirondack chair on the deck. Shaw-and-Dad slapstick is the best spectator theater. I lean closer to Vanessa, whispering, “Bet you’ve never seen this routine before.”

“Never,” she says sarcastically. “But it never grows old.”

Shaw darts around Dad and grabs another burger.