And yes, I knew my car was ridiculous. I looked it up online and learned I was driving a sixty-thousand-dollar vehicle. Actually, with the additional satellite radio and voice command function, it was probably closer to seventy. My father had gifted it to me, and I know partly because he liked to give me expensive things, but a small, slightly paranoid part of me thought it was his way of further entrenching me in his world. He had mentioned pulling my car payments if I continued seeing Cade. I smirked over at Cade driving the car, feeling naughty and rebellious. And, damn, that felt good.
Watching him drive my Beamer smoothly out of the parking lot was fascinating, and a feat I hadn’t yet achieved. But experiencing the way my back pressed into the seat when he gunned the engine, roaring down the highway and slipping around other cars smoothly, was exhilarating.
I didn’t know I was the kind of girl who found speed sexy, but with Cade at the helm—in control—all I could think of while those nice hands toyed with the Z4’s controls and kept her in check was my own body. I imagined his handling of me would be equally deft.
I’d already sampled his tongue and lips, and there was no doubt in my mind that he could work them on other parts of me just as skillfully. As I imagined which parts he could be teasing with the flick of his tongue, I sighed aloud.
Thankfully the radio was on, so he didn’t hear me literally moaning with pleasure at the thought of him doing wicked things to me.
It wasn’t like me to need sex. Don’t get me wrong, I liked it. I liked the closeness of it. The way time had passed easily between Tony and me when we were in the zone. But since we’d broken up—and since I’d learned he was a womanizing bastard—I began to wonder if I liked having sex with him more because it pleased him and less because it pleased me.
Now that I thought about it, Tony had been pretty distracted during sex. He was always admiring his own body. Flexing his biceps, showing me his abs, which were washboard, and very attractive. Every inch of his brown skin was attractive. I learned later that my ex was ugly on the inside.
Cade…He was different.
But he didn’t used to be,I argued with myself as I studied his healing knuckles. He used to be cocky. I’d never forget when he’d come up to me, all pomp and swagger, and addressed me as “kitten.”
I mean, seriously. How sexist was that?
Though when I thought back to his “oral therapy” quip, part of me wondered if my “kitten” nickname was a compliment, not the insult I’d taken it as.
Tony had done a number on me by then, so I wasn’t exactly receptive when Cade approached. Maybe that “Cade train” thing was a joke…or a messed-up attempt at being charming?
I watched him now, considering I hadn’t seen him as clearly before we’d spent so much time together. Not knowing him, it had been easier to plunk him into the column of “jerk” than it was now. Now that he’d kissed me and I’d kissed him, I was noticing more details about him. Cade wasn’t in 2-D any longer.
“Badass,” I heard him say under the radio. A song by Disturbed came on. I loved this one.
I tried not to appear surprised or excited by his sudden aptness at speaking. Was it because we had kissed…or because he was utterly blissed out driving my car? He really was in his element behind the wheel. Watching him cruise down the highway, handling my car like he’d driven it a thousand times, further reinforced that the accident on Alley Road had been just that: an accident.
Black ice was the cause of that tragic event, not Cade’s lack of control.
Control.
Omigod.
That was it. When Cade was in control, he was able to speak. If I could get him on track mentally, and he was willing to do speaking exercises, I’d bet he’d be back to himself in no time.
The ride was over too fast and he looked as disappointed as I felt when he pulled into his driveway. Two very manly hands slid over the steering wheel. I liked the way he stroked my car like she was a powerful animal he respected.
I imagined being handled by Cade in the same manner.
Purr.
His eyes found mine as he turned off the car. I wanted more of his mouth. I wanted to explore the tension that hummed between us. Things had just gotten hella complicated.
“Through?” he asked.
I blinked out of the fantasy forming, sad to leave it behind. Was he asking if I was through with him? Because the answer was: not even close.
“With…the session?” I asked. “We didn’t do anything.”
“We did ssssomething.” He pressed his lips together, his nostrils flaring with anger.
The “something” he meant was the kiss, and even the elongated S didn’t kill the moment for me, not even a little. It could have been one of those cute, flirty moments—like in the movies, where he would look chagrined and I would smile—but he didn’t let it go.
His hands went tight, strangling the wheel, and the muscles in his arms bunched. He was so hard on himself—beating himself up over a few misspoken letters.
“I like when you talk. Whether you stammer or not,” I told him, thinking he’d appreciate my honesty.