by Tara Janzen
“Nineteen-year-old girls don't ruin forty-year-old men's lives,” he told her flat out. “Forty-year-old men do that all on their own.”
She shook her head behind her hand. “He was only thirty-eight.”
“Twice your age.”
She looked up. “Which still doesn't explain why you stole his car. Why you really stole his car.”
Why he'd really stolen her husband's car? He wasn't sure he could explain it any more than he had. He'd been twenty years old, with a sappy, romantic dream in his heart and a chip on his shoulder—and she'd been in the middle of all of it.
“Knee-jerk reaction,” he offered. “I've stolen a lot of cars.”
“How many?” The wind picked up, dropping the temperature another few degrees, and he saw her shiver.
“Close to a hundred, I suppose,” he said, shrugging out of his denim shirt and closing the final distance between them.
“And you never got caught?”
“Just the once,” he reminded her with a brief grin, putting his shirt around her shoulders. He straightened the front to cover her better, then didn't let go.
Her gaze slid away from his, her mouth tightening, and she started to push by him, but he still didn't let go of her. He didn't dare.
Damn it.
“Hanson got to sleep with you, and I didn't,” he said, his own jaw a little tight. “So I stole his car.” It was as blunt a confession as he'd ever made to anyone, and there wasn't a damn thing about making it that made him happy.
She went very still between him and the Camaro, her head still down. All he could see was her hair and ponytail and the bright flash of her yellow shirt in the opening of his denim shirt.
“You were jealous?”
To put it mildly. “Yes.”
They were very close, her head barely reaching his shoulders, his shirt falling almost to her knees. He could feel every breath she took, feel the hesitation in her.
“You never even spoke to me that summer.”
“Yeah.” He knew it, and in about thirty more seconds, he was going to start feeling like a real idiot. He'd fallen hopelessly in love with her at sixteen, and for all his cool and street bravado, hadn't had the guts even to say hello. Even in retrospect, it was an unnerving assessment. “Look, I'm sorry if stealing the car made anything hard for you, if it made your life difficult.”
“He was pretty upset,” she admitted.
“The Mustang was the last car I ever stole.” He just wanted her to know. “And it sure as hell was the only one I ever gave back.”
“Guilty conscience?” She looked up, her eyes meeting his. Her expression was unreadable, part wariness, maybe, part curiosity, but her mouth looked soft in the moonlight, and it struck him how very, very easy it would be to kiss her again.
“A little,” he confessed, “and a little bit just growing up.” There was more, but he wasn't about to tell her that making love with the flag girl up at Bandimere in the backseat had sort of cured him of his sexual obsession with the Mustang and her. After he'd smoked the competition in a 10.7-second quarter-mile run, he and the girl had spent half the night in the car, steaming up the windows. By the time they were done, he was done with the car. The girl's name had been Lindsay, and she'd been beautiful, blond, and stacked. In the darkened backseat of the Mustang she'd looked just enough like Regan to suit his needs. And if she hadn't been using him as much as he'd been using her, he might have felt guilty about never calling her.
“Scott would be the first to say you'd gotten the better part of the deal,” she said, her gaze slipping away from his.
“Scott's a fool.”
“Maybe,” she conceded. “Or maybe you should have kept the car.”
No way in hell. The only way he would have kept the car was if it had been her in the backseat. Then he would have enshrined the damn thing.
But it hadn't been her. It hadn't been Regan McKinney with her smart mouth and her lofty opinions, and her oh-so-intellectual discussions with the graduate students. She'd used words he'd never even heard of, and each and every one of those words had come out of the most beautiful, take-me-now mouth he'd ever seen. She'd been so blond—the curves, the hair, the eyes, the cheekbones—everything about her so ditzo gorgeous, and then she'd opened her mouth and out had come words like Saurischia and Ornithischia, placental mammal and multituberculates. He'd sat down and listened to her lecture on the cladistic system of biological taxonomy, and he'd fallen in love.
He'd always been smart. Smart enough to steal cars, stay out of jail, and keep from using any drug that was going to use him—but she'd inspired him to do better.
When he'd finally gotten to college, engineering and aeronautics had grabbed him a lot harder than paleontology, but he'd known it wasn't the particulars that were important. It was the education. A guy couldn't be a dumb-ass car thief and walk off with a girl like Regan McKinney.
The trouble was that by the time he'd gotten a little education under his belt, it was too late. She'd already walked off with Dr. Hanson.
But not anymore. Hanson was long gone—which just left him and the definitive object of half a lifetime's unrequited affection alone in the dark on a dead-end road in the middle of the woods.
It was enough to make a guy think.
Jeanette didn't have a backseat, but on a night like this, they didn't need one, not really, not for what he had in mind.
You are so fucking crazy, he told himself, even as he tightened his hold on the denim shirt and pulled her closer. It was crazy to kiss her after making her so mad. Crazy to kiss her after confessing how much he'd wanted her. He didn't have the high ground here, no tactical advantage, no good reason on earth to kiss her, except for the low ache in his body that could only be relieved by getting close to her—really close. He wanted to get inside her, even if it was just a little bit, even if it was just his tongue in her mouth.
He couldn't just hand her over to Kid and walk away.
He pulled on the shirt until her hips came up against his. Then he backed her up against the car, and all thoughts of advantages, tactical or otherwise, disappeared. He held her dark-eyed gaze, and heat coiled low in his belly. Better part of the deal, his ass. If Hanson had made her think that, then the man had been worse than a fool.
She was more beautiful as a woman than she'd ever been as a girl, the angles of her face more delicately carved, not so softly rounded, her body even more lush. He let his gaze drift over her face, memorizing every curve. When his attention settled on her mouth, she knew it. He felt her soften, heard the slight intake of her breath. Whatever else was going on between them, however angry she'd been with him before, she wanted his kiss as much as he wanted hers.
She wanted to get inside him, too.
Well, she could have him any way she wanted him, and if she ran out of ideas, he had enough for both of them.
Pulling her even closer, tighter to him, he lowered his head and took her mouth, slanting his lips across hers and seeking entrance with his tongue. Her response was immediate, a soft gasp of pleasure, and he took the kiss home, slipping inside and finding his own piece of heaven. God, she was so sweet.
Her hands came up around his neck, her fingers tangling through his hair, and he opened his mouth wider, taking more of her—and knew a single kiss wasn't going to be enough.
Her mouth was made for love, for kissing and making love, so soft and lush and enticingly erotic. She moved against him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her mouth angling over his and creating a brief moment of suction, and as quickly as that, heat shot to his groin. He felt his control slip, a quick jerk of it out from under him.
Suction opened up a whole new field of possibilities, one he was more than happy to play in. In his fantasies, she loved going down on him, couldn't get enough of him, and it was always incredible. He'd imagined it a thousand times, her head in his lap, her blond hair draped like silk across his thighs and belly, her mouth on him, driving him wild, and him returning t
he favor.
But her kiss . . . God, tonight her kiss was enough to undo him. They'd barely begun, and he was already primed to take her to the edge. She made a sound in the back of her throat, the kind of sound guaranteed to focus a man's attention and get him hard, and his body heeded the call in spades. She felt so good.
Instinct slid his hands up under her shirt, one smooth sweep of his palms up to her bra, and for a second she stopped breathing. He rubbed his thumbs across her nipples, making them hard and feeling the wonderful, soft weight of her breasts in his hands and the amazing texture of lace over silken skin. She groaned in his mouth.
The sound shot through him like wildfire. Geezus. It couldn't be this easy. Not to see her for all these years and then just have her fall into his arms—but it was easy, and nothing had ever felt more right.
He knew lust, and it was running hot through his veins, but there was something more. Something beyond the burning ache he felt for her. Something fiercer, with an edge of desperation he was trying to ignore and could barely comprehend. If it was love, he didn't want it. He'd given up loving her a long time ago. The emotion had been too demoralizing, too defeating, too god-awful naive, and it had made him a little crazy.
Kissing her was making him crazy. Her mouth was hot and wet and had gone from sweet to demanding. She wanted more, and he obliged, gently sucking on her tongue, setting a rhythm he matched with his hips. If she'd had any doubts before, she knew now what he wanted from her: everything.
REGAN was drowning. Drowning in desire and confusion—and desire kept winning, every second, every heartbeat. She wasn't proud of it. She should be made of sterner stuff. She was so angry with him for stealing Scott's car, for passing judgment on her marriage, for even daring to have an opinion on what she and Scott had tried and failed to make between them—and despite his having found Wilson, she was angry with the whole mess that had dragged her to Cisco.
But what he was doing with his mouth made anger a slippery commodity. The taste and smell of him made a hash out of her righteous indignation. Who wanted to be right, when she could be kissed?
She'd lasted all of 0.5 seconds when he'd looked at her mouth, but had truly been lost the minute he'd said he'd stolen the Mustang because Scott had gotten to sleep with her and he hadn't. Through all those strained encounters and halfhearted standoffs of her marriage bed, Quinn Younger had wanted her. He'd wanted her like this: passionately, his tongue halfway down her throat, his hands all over her, his breathing ragged. No rules and nobody in control. They were outside on a dirt road, for the love of God, and she could hear traffic going by on the highway below.
The realization added a dark thrill to the whole heart-stopping experience of having Quinn make love to her mouth. She didn't know what else to call what he was doing. It was more than a kiss, more than any kiss she'd ever been given, except for the one he'd given her at Jake's. The slow, deliberate sucking on her tongue was meant without doubt to make her think of a far more intimate act.
And she was—shamelessly. The feel of him in her mouth, the taste of him, was intoxicating, dizzying. He set her on fire with his kiss, made her gasp, and every inch of her wanted more. It was crazy. Crazy and hot and utterly sexual in a way she'd thought she would never know except in her fantasies—but the reality of it, God, the reality of it was so much more intense, the silkiness of his hair sliding through her fingers, the rough edge of his jaw beneath her palm, the strength of his arms wrapped around her. In her fantasies, everything was safe. She was in charge. With him, nothing was safe. The pure physical energy of him was a force to be reckoned with. He was powerful, dangerous, and unpredictably seductive. She didn't know what was going to happen next—but she should have.
He slid his hand up under her skirt, and a moment's panic stirred in her veins—too late. He had been unerring, his hand moving between her legs, where he cupped her with his palm—and at that point he knew as well as she just how much she wanted him.
She was slightly mortified, but too aroused to pull away, especially when his fingers slowly slid beneath her underwear and began moving over her so very, very gently. The kiss came to a sudden, heart-catching stop, leaving both of them standing so very still, breathing into each other's mouths, hardly daring to move.
People fall in love for this, Regan thought through the haze of her arousal. They fall in love with a person who can give them so much pleasure. She was entranced by it, by the sheer eroticism of Quinn's touch and her own physically wanton response.
“God, you are so soft,” he murmured against her lips. “So beautiful.”
His words worked like a magic elixir poured over her senses, and she knew the touch of his hand would not be enough, would never be enough. She wanted him the way she had him in her most carnal fantasies. She wanted him filling her up, driving her to the pinnacle of release. She wanted him to make her feel more like a woman than she ever had with Scott—and if he couldn't give her everything, she still wanted him.
God, she wasn't even sure she liked him. He was wild. He was practically a stranger. He drove too fast and lived on the edge, and his work was a mystery, a dangerous mystery that had already caused her a boatload of trouble. But the connection they were sharing, the seduction—for all its raw power and reckless disregard for even her most dearly held rules of safe comportment, it felt like a gift, like the most precious of gifts, her rules be damned. He was the haven and the storm. She'd wanted his kiss forever, and now she wanted more.
QUINN felt the last ounce of tension drain from her body, felt her soften against him in a thousand yearning ways, and he knew the battle had been won, if there had even been a battle. She was like honey, wild honey, the kind that drove men mad—and she was his for the taking.
The truth put a fierce edge on his desire. Breaking off the kiss, but holding her where she stood, he leaned over and reached inside the passenger window. A quick rap on the dash popped the glove compartment open. “Be prepared” was one helluva motto, but when he found what he wanted, he knew he'd mostly been damn lucky.
“No surprises, Regan.” His voice was husky as he held up a packet of condoms. “I want to be inside you and feel you come all over me.”
“No surprises?” she said softly, her hands slipping up under his T-shirt as her gaze slid away from his. “Well, then, I, uh, usually don't. Not really, and I know this can be . . . upsetting . . . for a man, but I want to be with you, Quinn.” Her confession was barely a whisper, and it was with obvious effort that she lifted her eyes back up to meet his. “I really do. When you kiss me, I . . .”
Get hot. She didn't have to say it. He knew. He got hot, too, when they kissed, really hot.
She was blushing again. He could tell, even in the silvery glow of the moonlight. She didn't come with a man inside her? She'd all but said her sex life with her husband hadn't been good, but that was pitiful—but neither did it matter, not really, not tonight. If she didn't come with him inside her, he'd try something else. He wanted her to get off on him. He wanted her sweating, and moaning, and his, and if one thing didn't work, they'd go to the next—and he'd make damn sure she loved every minute of it.
Holding her gaze steadily with his own, he gently rubbed his thumb across her mouth and said, “Maybe I can help.” Then he leaned down and licked her lips.
It wasn't a kiss. He simply got her wet, ran his tongue over her like she was ice cream melting on a hot summer day. Then he moved to her jawline, her throat, across her collarbone, and all the while he was pushing her shirt up under her arms, exposing her breasts. When he got to her nipple with his tongue, she stiffened on a gasp, and when he covered her with his mouth and began to suck, she melted back onto Jeanette.
He could feel the Camaro rumbling through both of them. It was as erotic as hell, but not nearly as erotic as having Regan in his mouth. The lace of her bra was incredibly delicate. He could feel it disintegrating, almost melting away beneath his tongue and the gentle suction of his mouth.
God, he
wondered if her panties would do the same, if he could literally lick them off her.
He slid his hands up under her skirt again, cupping her bottom and lifting her onto the hood. Stepping between her legs, he pulled her against his crotch, seating her firmly against him, and reached for his belt. He needed some relief; he needed her.
When her hands came down to help, he let her take over and moved back up to caress her breasts and take her mouth in another soul-shattering kiss.
Oh, yeah, this was how it was supposed to be—her small hands working his belt buckle, unbuttoning his jeans. Her fingers pulling the tab on his zipper, grazing his erection, every move she made turning him on and winding him up tighter.
When she pushed his pants down low on his hips and took him in her hand with languorous, rhythmic strokes, he groaned with the pure, mindless pleasure of it. Sliding his hand back up between her legs, he returned the favor, playing with her ever so gently, teasing her and exploring. It was heaven.
She'd been wet all day, with sweat and melting ice, but this is what he'd wanted, her soft folds slick and swollen, her most primal response all in readiness for him—all because he was touching her. He'd known they would be good together. He'd known it even at sixteen. But he'd be damned if he'd ever thought there would be a chance to prove it.
“Quinn,” she whispered, her mouth moving over his face, leaving a trail of kisses. “Oh, Quinn.” Her voice was soft, her words nearly lost in the purring rumble of Jeanette's low growl.
Working her panties off with one hand, he threw them inside the Camaro. Then he sheathed himself with the condom. When he entered her, she sighed in his ear, a sweet, shuddering sigh, as if at long last she, too, was coming home. He thrust, and she clung to him. She was warm and loving, and whispering in his ear—soft words and his name, over and over, like a litany of her most secret desires.
It was erotic, and arousing, and strangely unnerving. Oh, God, he thought, wary as hell, but so turned on he couldn't stop—please don't let me fall in love. This was sex, wonderful sex with a beautiful woman he'd wanted since time had begun, and he had to have it. This was sex like breathing, but he didn't need love.