Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Right?
Chapter
Eight
PARKER
Ididn’t realize it was possible to be this horny.
I swear, this woman teaches me something new every day.
Yesterday, it was that you can use applesauce as an egg substitute if you want fresh muffins but don’t want to bother with a trip to the store. Today, it’s that I can be so fucking turned on, it feels like I might spontaneously combust.
I’m not going to combust, of course.
I’m not a teenager with zero self-control.
But as soon as we get home…
Assuming Makena’s still thinking what I’m thinking…
In the back seat of the rideshare, I nudge my thigh against hers and she nudges back, her lips twitching into a half smile before settling into a tight line. Our fingers tangle together, the only thread tying me to sanity, and I’m trying very hard not to think about what her fingers were doing to me twenty minutes ago.
Trying and failing.
Spectacularly.
My dick is still three-quarters-hard, no doubt in his stubborn head that we’re headed home to finish what we started in the family bathroom. I’ve tried to warn him that this isn’t a sure thing. That Mack and I still need to talk. Sort things out. Have a clearheaded conversation about where we go from here and whether or not banging is really the best call right now.
But he isn’t listening.
Poor bastard.
As much as I hate the thought of another night alone with my hand, I can’t tell if the tension on her face is sexual tension or tension tension. She did look a little nervous as we were leaving the bar.
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid. Whatever she’s still worried about, we can handle it.
Age gap? Who cares. Different long-term goals? We’ll find a compromise. Different short-term goals? Harder, since I’m locked into a two-year contract with the Voodoo, but still totally doable.
This is doable.
We are doable.
And she is so fucking doable that getting her naked and under me is pretty much all I can think about.
I squeeze her leg again, just above her knee, and she squeezes back, just like we did in the bar before she—
The car drifts slightly into the other lane. I jerk my gaze to the front in time to see our driver’s head doing a slow-motion bob that makes me suspect he’s fighting a losing battle with consciousness.
“Hey, buddy.” I lean forward, ready to grab his shoulder—or the wheel—if I have to. “You okay up there?”
His chin snaps up at the urgency in my voice. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Sorry, brother.” He sucks in a breath and gives his head a shake. “Shit, just a long day.”
Makena’s hand tightens on mine. When I glance back at her, she looks as worried as I feel. Yeah, screw death by fiery car crash. I didn’t survive a flood and get this close to fucking the woman of my dreams to die ten miles from the finish line.
“Maybe pull over for a second?” I suggest keeping my voice easy. “Grab some fresh air? We’re not in a rush. Hell, we could run around the car a few times with you, if you want.”
“I could go for some fresh air,” Makena agrees. “Sounds great, actually.”
“You sure?” The man glances at us in the rearview mirror, and Christ, he looks exhausted. Not just tired, but a bone-deep, soul-sucking level of exhaustion I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced—not even that time my fourteen-hour flight to South Korea to teach an Olympic camp somehow became a thirty-two-hour flight, thanks to general airline incompetence.
“Yeah, totally!”
“No problem at all,” Makena and I trip over each other in our rush to assure him.
Meanwhile, I’m already making plans to ask him to let me drive.
Or hell, just call another car and wait at that gas station up ahead until it shows up.
“All right, then. Thanks a lot, I really appreciate it.” He signals, pulling into the gas station. “Just give me a minute to walk around and pound the rest of my coffee, and I’ll be ready to go. I swear.”
Once we’re parked, he opens the door, letting in the muggy evening air. The overheads flood the car—harsh and unforgiving. Luis—our driver’s name, according to the license taped to his dashboard—looks even worse in the light. Dark circles under his eyes, three-day stubble, and a yellowish tinge to his skin that isn’t doing him any favors.
Still, he looks like a strong, youngish guy, maybe mid-thirties, and in good shape. He’s just fucking beat.
“How long you been driving today?” Makena asks gently.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Since four. This morning,” he adds with a humorless laugh.
Makena sits up straighter. “This morning? That’s what? Almost seventeen, eighteen hours?”
“Give or take,” Luis admits. “But the surge pricing’s been really good since the flood, so…”
Makena and I exchange a look.
Nearly a full day of driving? What the actual fuck? How is this guy still upright?