“K-keys.” Fuck. Of course.
“I’m not giving you my car keys.” Her eyebrows turned down.
Oh yes she was. I snapped my fingers.
She folded her arms. Instead of arguing, I bent, grabbed her bag and the blanket, and started for the car.
She followed, rounding to the trunk. When I heard the telltale jingle, I did what any responsible, mature adult would do…and snatched the keys out of her hand.
“Hey! Give those back!”
I held them out of reach, keeping hold of the blanket and her bag in my other hand. Again, not super mature, but at this point I was feeling used and irked and distractedly turned on. So, okay, yeah, I was keeping the damn keys.
“Do you want me to report you for…grand theft auto?” She was cute when she was yelling at me.
I used the fob to unlock her car and tossed the blanket and her bag into the trunk. She argued that I wasn’t allowed to drive her car, spouting off about how this was unfair and she was only trying to help.
I could give her points for the unfair bit, and a part of me conceded that Tasha probably was only trying to help. But I wasn’t missing out on my chance to drive this baby, and she owed me one for using me.
“G-get in,” I said. I don’t know if it was my fixed expression of impatience or my steely tone, but she didn’t argue. She climbed in as I was adjusting the seat and easing back into the best-smelling leather I’d ever sat my ass on.
I stroked the steering wheel, flexing my fingers and taking hold of it as gently as I had Tasha’s neck during our kiss.
Our fake kiss.
Taking in a lungful of new-car smell, I flipped through her preset radio stations. Pop. Pop. Country. Jazz? I made a face and punched another button. Ahh, there we go.Rock. I cranked the radio—the Black Keys—and lifted an eyebrow at Tasha. She buckled her seatbelt and with delicate fingers stroked the nylon crossing her breasts.
Retesting her theory, this time on my terms, I leaned across the seat and pressed my lips to hers. One soft kiss that made me want more and caused her to let out a soft whimper of approval. Instead of giving us both what we wanted, I forced myself to pull away and focused my eyes on hers.
“Let me show you what this baby can do,” I told her.
Tasha
Wow.
Capital W. Capital O. Capital W.
My lips still hummed from the gentle kiss of reprimand Cade had given me. The throb of the drums on the radio matched my stuttering heartbeat. Was it bad that I’d noticed Cade hadn’t stuttered? I couldn’t help it. His mouth, tongue, and lips were part of my job and, as of a few minutes ago when they’d claimed me for the first time, now were part of the reason I was distracted.
Focus.
Right.
At the museum, Cade’s amazing mouth working over mine, I was given a very big clue as to how to “fix him” as requested. Moira was half right, but I was also half right.
Cade’s tongue was tense. He needed the oral exercises I’d suggested—needed to physically practice to limber the muscle that would help him create words. But underlying, dormant anxiety was also an issue. He had a mental and a physical problem.
Not bad for a student who was not a speech therapist, I thought smugly as he navigated my Z4 away from the museum.
The moment he let his frustration get the best of him, he lost control over his tongue and he was back to stuttering. But after that incredible kiss, one that shut my brain off and powered on my lady bits, one that had my hands grasping him as he cupped the back of my neck, he’d spoken two words perfectly.
Oral therapy.
I was so proud I could have kissed him.
Again.
Cade had adjusted the driver’s seat to accommodate his longer legs. He was both tall and broad, making my powerful Z4 look delicate. Especially the grip he had on the steering wheel. Blunt, squared fingertips, nice knuckles. I’d never really looked at a guy’s hands before, but Cade had really nice ones. I let my eyes wander to the flexing of his biceps—equally nice—when he put the car into reverse, then to the tattoos on his arm—super sexy—as he punched the button for the driver’s-side window.