Dirty Thoughts

by Megan Erickson

  He had to have heard it, because he jerked his hand back. “Uh, didn’t mean to do that.” He scratched the hair that was curling at the nape of his neck. “Sorry.”

  She turned a little to face him. They were entering her neighborhood now. They’d pull into her driveway in minutes. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  He didn’t look at her, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. “Yeah, but I shouldn’t have touched you. I just . . . ” His voice trailed off.

  She stared at his profile as he pulled into her driveway and parked. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and squinted at the one-car garage attached to her house. “Nice place.”

  She ignored his attempt to change the subject. She reached and brushed his arm lightly with the back of her hand. “Is this difficult for you? Like it is for me?”

  He stared at the emblem in the center of the steering wheel and ran his fingers over it. She waited, unsure if he’d ask her to elaborate.

  “There are times,” he said softly, “that I wish I was good at lyin’.”

  Her heart sped up until it pounded in her ears, and she swore he’d see it beat through the skin of her neck.

  “This is one of those times.” His voice was gravel and grit and regret. He took off his hat and scratched his head and threw his cap into the back of his cab. “It’s hard as hell. And after all these years, I never thought it would be.”

  His gaze finally met hers. His pale eyes glowed, reflecting off the light above her garage door. A slash of light cut across the bottom of his face, highlighting the five-o’clock shadow on his jaw. She wondered how that stubble would feel on her face, the soft skin of her belly, between her thighs.

  “Cal . . . ” She didn’t mean to reach out, to touch him. What right did she have? Those blue-gray eyes were boring into hers, but they were giving her nothing. And she wanted just one touch, one shot at a connection. He closed his eyes as her palm cupped his jaw and her fingers traced over the hollow of his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and that dimple in his chin.

  His stubble was coarse, but the skin beneath was soft, which was how she’d always described Cal himself.

  Reluctantly, she pulled her hand back, but Cal’s eyes sprung open, and he grabbed her wrist. She curled her fingers into a fist, inches from his face.

  Those steely irises were giving her something now, daring her, and his parted lips were the incentive.

  “Jenna.” His growl was a warning. But she didn’t know if he was throwing the caution tape between them or if he was pissed that she’d started to retreat.

  She tried to remember what he was like at eighteen. But it was hard to find that impulsive boy in this controlled man. All she knew was that she didn’t want to retreat. She’d only started because she’d thought he wouldn’t appreciate the advance. But what she’d learned in New York was to be clear and firm about what she wanted and, most of all, to go after it.

  Jenna uncurled her fingers so the pads brushed his bottom lip. And she gave one decisive nod.

  There was a pause, and it was like time stopped for a minute. Jenna didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and she swore her heartbeat slowed to a crawl as she waited for Cal to react to her nod, to her questing fingers on his lips.

  And then he yanked on her arm, not enough to hurt but enough to pull her across the bench seat of the tow truck and into his arms.

  She didn’t care about her heels or her dress. She didn’t give a shit about any of it, because she was in Cal’s lap, straddling him, her knees on either side of his hips. And his palms were on her face, fingers curling into her scalp and finally . . . oh, finally, his lips were on hers.

  Cal could kiss, always could. Just the right pressure with the right texture of those maddening ridges on his lips. But back then, he’d been a boy. He kissed with the intent to move on to the main show.

  The Cal she was kissing now was all man. A man who knew what a kiss could do, how it affected a woman. How a kiss was its own skill. And boy, how she loved kissing this man.

  She squeezed his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle through the thin layer of his T-shirt. He moaned against her lips, and she opened her mouth. He went for it, delving his tongue inside her mouth, licking into her, tasting her, inhaling her. And God, maybe they were different people than they had been but this . . . this was the same. This hunger for each other, the intensity with which their bodies reacted in each other’s presence. It was the same, if not magnified.

  As his hands lowered down her neck, she wondered what else Cal could do now that he was all man. Those strong arms, those thick legs. How would he fuck? She could think dirty thoughts about him now, because his hands were doing dirty things to her body.

  Those palms were moving over the swell of her breasts, and a thumb flicked her left nipple through the thin material of her dress and bra. She whimpered and rolled her hips, feeling the hard heat of him encased in denim between her legs.

  She could still turn Cal on. She could still make him hard. It was empowering.

  He broke the kiss and leaned back, watching his hands as they skimmed her ribs, spanned her waist, and then gripped her hips.

  She liked watching him look at her, his eyes full of mercury heat. His fingers dug into her, and he gently guided her, rubbing her onto himself. His jeans were rough on the skin of her thighs, and the seam was chafing the skin raw on the inside of her knees, but she didn’t care. She dug her fingers into his chest further, using her nails, because if she was going to have marks from this, then he’d have them too.

  He licked his lips, his eyes still on his lap. “Lift up your dress, Jenna.”

  Her breath left her lungs on a whoosh. His voice was low and firm and so confident. This was what he’d been lacking when they were teenagers and frankly, this was what every man after him had been lacking too.

  Cal knew what he wanted and wasn’t ashamed to ask for it. Her nipples hardened, and she was sure he could see them through her dress. She was wet, but even if she hadn’t been astride him, she would have been wet just from those words.

  She uncurled her nails from his chest and lowered her hands. She placed her palms on her knees and then slowly ran them up her legs. She had goose bumps, not because she was cold but because every single inch of her body was hypersensitive to Cal’s gaze, his touch.

  He was watching her hands and when they reached the edge of her dress, he sucked in a breath.

  She paused and bit her lip.

  His tilted his head to the side and lifted his gaze to her. “Show me.”

  She curled her fingers around the hem as she worried her lip between her teeth. He was fully clothed, and she was straddling him, about to lift up her dress. His command pulled at something inside of her to obey, and so she did, skimming that light fabric up her thighs. He dropped his hands to her knees and watched his lap as she pulled up, up until the lower half of her dress was balled up at her waist.

  She was wearing a white lace thong. Anything else might have been visible through her dress. Without her dress covering it, the air hit the damp fabric, and she moaned.

  Cal didn’t move. He was staring at her, at the small scrap of lace that covered her. The muscles in his jaw bulged as he flexed them, and his thumbs dug into the soft skin of her inner thighs.

  He swallowed and licked his lips, leaving them parted. His hands began to move, following the same path hers had moments before. He stopped when his thumbs dipped into the crease where her legs met her body.

  She tried to keep her breathing steady, but not knowing what he’d do next was driving her crazy. Her chest was rising and falling with her heaving breaths, and she wanted to scream, until he lifted his right hand and ran the backs of his fingers between her legs.

  She shuddered at the touch. She was wet and swollen and so sensitive, she didn’t think it would take much to set her off.

  He leaned his head back on the headrest and finally, his gaze met hers. Not breaking eye contact, he moved his thumb and pressed it right to the d
amp fabric. She sucked in a breath. He moved it, questing, reading the cues in her body, the shifts in her hips until he hit just. The. Right. Spot.

  “I want to see you get off,” he said. Every word, every touch was full of intent. With one hand firmly on her hip and the other doing crazy things to her clit, he urged her to ride his lap. She let her dress go, and it stayed bunched around her waist as she clutched his arms. He watched her, the cords in his neck straining, the muscles in his shoulders bulging.

  “You still get this wet for me?” His voice came through clenched teeth.

  “What does it feel like?” she gasped.

  “Feels like my Sunshine.”

  She threw her head back, the ends of her hair tickling the top of her bare ass. She didn’t care where she was; she didn’t care what this meant. All she knew was that Cal’s hands were on her again, his voice in her ear, his scent in her nostrils. She wanted him, and she wanted this moment more than her next breath.

  She came on a silent cry that turned into gasping moans. Her whole body shook in his arms, and his low voice whispered some words in her ear that she couldn’t decipher. Her brain had gone offline, and all she managed to do after her orgasm ripped through her was to slump onto his chest, panting hot breaths on the skin of his neck.

  A finger lifted her chin. “You still kiss like a fucking dream.” His lips coasted over hers, and his broad hands skimmed down her back to palm her ass. He flexed his hips once. “And you still feel like one too.”

  “Cal.” He was hard between her legs. It was difficult to reconcile this Cal with the one she’d known before, but it didn’t matter. She wanted him. And he wanted her. She leaned back and cupped his stubbled jaw, looking into his silver eyes. “Do you want to come inside?”

  Chapter Six

  DO YOU WANT to come inside?

  Those words slammed into him, bringing everything into focus, and it was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped onto Cal’s head.

  What the fuck was he doing? No really. What the fuck was he doing?

  He was about ten seconds away from fucking her in the cab of the tow truck. Jenna MacMillan. The only girl he’d ever loved. He hadn’t seen her in ten years, and he acted like this, like the same out-of-control eighteen-year-old who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

  She’d felt right under his hands, her lips had been perfection, and that was the problem. Nothing had changed between them from back then to now. He was still Cal Payton, a blue-collar piece of shit, and she was Jenna MacMillan, daughter of the richest guy in town. She still saw him the same, didn’t she? The rough guy with rough hands who’d take her in a truck?

  The definition of insanity was doing the same thing and expecting different results. Cal was many things but crazy wasn’t one of them.

  Jenna’s flushed cheeks faded, and her brow furrowed as she stared at his face, which surely showed his dawning anxiety over this situation. “C-Cal?” Her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck.

  He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the headrest. He dropped his hands from her legs, hating the way his palms itched to go right back where they were, like her skin was magnetic.

  He swallowed and prepared to hate himself. “No.”

  Her body tensed on top of his. “What?”

  “No, I don’t wanna come inside. And you gotta get off of me.”

  There was a pause, and she flexed her hips slightly onto his erection, which made him grit his teeth. “But—”

  “I’m holding on to my willpower by a fine fucking thread. So if you don’t get off me in five seconds, Jenna, swear to God, I will be inside you. Now get. Off.” He used crude words and language on purpose. That’s what she expected of him, wasn’t it?

  He didn’t open his eyes until she slid off him. Where once there had been a simmering heat of attraction firing in this cab, now there was nothing but a chill. And it went right down to his bones.

  He heard her take a deep breath and then her purse straps jingled. He opened his eyes and gripped the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the door of her garage. She’d rented a nice house. He figured she didn’t plan to stay there, but even if she did, it would be a nice place to raise a family. He could picture a basketball hoop over the garage door. A nice little swing on the front porch. Jenna standing at the door, a toddler clinging to her leg as he pulled into the driveway after a long day of work.

  He didn’t want that. He told himself he didn’t want that. It wasn’t for him. Jenna wasn’t for him.

  And as much as it killed him to listen to her gather herself together over on the other side of the truck cab, he had to stay firm. Another couple of minutes of awkwardness and anger would save them each from a future of heartache. Because this would end again, probably even worse than the last time. Which was pretty fucking bad, considering the broken nose and possible assault charge.

  He heard her take a sharp breath, and he wondered what kind of battle was coming. “Cal—”

  “I’ll take your car back to the shop and get a tire on it. Brent’ll call you when it’s ready.” He turned the ignition, still avoiding her gaze.

  “Excuse me?” Her voice shook.

  He turned to look at her, careful to keep his face blank. “He’ll call you when it’s ready,” he said slowly.

  Her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply. “Can you explain, please, why you’re pretending like I wasn’t on your lap five minutes ago with my skirt hiked up to my waist?”

  Of course she wouldn’t let him get away with this. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  “That shouldn’t have happened?” Her voice was reaching screech octaves. He heard, and he knew she did too, because she shook her head and turned away from him.

  She smoothed her dress, and it pained him to see how much this hurt her. But he told himself it was for the best, despite the sour feeling in his stomach.

  “Well, thank you for fixing my tire. I’ll look forward to your brother’s call.” She opened up the truck door, hopped down, and turned to peer back into the cab. There was a flash in her eyes he didn’t like. “Maybe he’ll be nicer to me than his asshole brother.”

  Cal couldn’t stop the sneer from curling his lips. “Don’t play that game with me, Jenna.”

  She smirked, and he knew she’d willingly poked the bear. “Then don’t play games with me, Calvin.” She slammed the door shut and stalked to the front door of her house. She opened her front door and stepped inside.

  He sat in the driveway for five minutes, beating himself up until he felt steady enough to put the truck in gear and drive away.

  THE SOUND OF his motorcycle’s engine below him, the vibration between his thighs, was the only thing soothing him, keeping him from running back to Jenna’s house and begging forgiveness.

  Because plain and simple, he’d been an asshole. He knew it. She knew it. But what was done was done, and Cal was a decisive son of a bitch. It’d been heaven to feel her again, but that was the last chance he was going to get.

  He’d come home after dropping off Jenna’s car and immediately hopped on his bike for a late-night summer ride. These were his favorite times to be out on the road. There wasn’t much traffic, and the air was hot yet not blistering. He could wear his leather jacket with a T-shirt underneath, a backwards ball cap on his head and just . . . ride.

  He’d tried to be a big shot around Jenna at first, all proud of how he’d changed, but then he’d pulled that move on her like a teenager. He had his reasons why they’d never work in the long run, but how could Jenna understand that? She hadn’t gotten it all those years ago. She thought it was no big deal how much her family despised him. But they had more power over her than she wanted to recognize, and they’d sure pulled that card at the first shot they had to get her away from him.

  And at eighteen, he’d played right into it like a chump.

  He turned a corner and opened up the gas on the long stretch of highway in front of him.

 
Jenna. God, she’d been beautiful with her swollen lips and flushed cheeks, with that mass of brown hair surrounding them.

  He’d wanted her so bad. He’d wanted to open the fly of his jeans, rip that piece of fabric between her legs to the side, and bury himself inside of her. If she was any other girl, he wouldn’t have hesitated. But she wasn’t. She was Jenna.

  He had . . . things with Jenna. A past. Fucking feelings. Goddamn feelings. And they fucked everything up, because then a fuck wasn’t a simple fuck. It was complicated and messy because he wouldn’t want one time with her. He’d want it again and again.

  So he’d made the right decision. He was about two cats away from being a hermit anyway, so he didn’t think he’d see her around town much. He’d make Brent deal with her cars, although he sighed when he thought about how much fun that conversation would be.

  He pulled into his driveway and steered his bike into the garage. He kept his truck parked outside, because he cared a hell of a lot more about his bike than that old rusted thing on four wheels.

  He’d ridden a couple of used bikes before saving up for his current ride—a 2013 Harley-Davidson Softail Deluxe. It had a retro look, with whitewall tires, a thick fork, and triple headlights. He ran his hands over the black seat and the red and silver body.

  So yeah, this beauty got the garage. His truck could rust out in the driveway.

  Inside the house, he threw his keys onto the kitchen counter and walked upstairs, disrobing as he went, eager to get a shower to wash this day off him.

  When he finally stood naked under the hot spray, his erection, which had never really gone away, decided to make a reappearance.

  He reached down and wrapped his fingers around his shaft, stroking once as he braced his other hand on the wall in front of him. He widened his legs, feeling that familiar pull in his gut, the need to come.

  He thought about the last girl he’d dated but blurred faces rolled through his vision, like a lottery slot machine, until it finally stopped to focus on Jenna’s hazel eyes.