He pushes the door open to the department of motor vehicles, turning toward me while leaning on it. "You know what we should do, though."
"What?"
"Road trip."
"Yeah, right."
Hendrix shrugs. "You don't want to hang out with me, just be honest, sweet cheeks. I was even going to let you drive part of the way."
"We can't just drop everything and take a road trip somewhere."
"Who's watching you? Our parents left for the weekend," Hendrix says. He leans close to my ear, his voice a whisper. "Unless you're chicken, Addy-girl. Are you afraid I'm going to corrupt you?"
I'm afraid you already have. A shiver runs up my spine. I know he's not talking about sex, but for some reason, it feels that way and my heart pounds so loudly in my chest it feels like it's going to explode. "Okay," I say. "But only if I pass the test."
Hendrix slides into one of the cheap plastic seats in the waiting room. "Go pass your fucking test already, Addy-girl," he says. "You and I have a date with the open road."
PRESENT DAY
Shit. The blood pumps loudly in my ears, and my heart races. I close my bedroom door, leaning up against it like I'm barricading it with my body. As if Hendrix is going to follow me into my bedroom or something. I'm sure he hates me now. He was furious when he walked down the hallway. When he walked away from whatever just happened between us.
Oh God. What the hell just happened between us?
My brain refuses to process this information. Whatever happened out there in the hallway was just some weird too-early-in-the-morning-to-count parallel universe kind of thing. That was not Hendrix and I.
What was I thinking, wandering out there in a t-shirt and panties?
I was thinking that Hendrix had left to go running and that I had the house to myself.
I don't even know why I'm up this early, anyway. I should be getting better sleep with Hendrix here. He's been really helpful in some ways, scheduling and taking care of things, before I even know to ask. He's been cooking, too. It's kind of like having a personal assistant and bodyguard and chef rolled up into one.
Except that I haven't been getting more sleep. My sleep has been restless, fragmented by dreams, torn apart by half-lucid memories of the past, of Hendrix before he left for boot camp. And by how I felt about him back then.
Seeing him standing in my hallway, inches away from me, wearing boxer briefs that hug his perfectly formed ass and his holy-shit-huge cock...well, that isn't going do anything to help me get him out of my head, either. I think that image is going to be permanently burned onto my brain. And what he did a minute later, the way he grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me toward him…even now, it's like every part of my body is turned on, wired somehow, on a cellular level.
I lean against the door, my breath still caught in my throat, my chest rising and falling. My nipples are hard, so sensitive, that the normally soft cotton fabric of the t-shirt I'm wearing feels more like sandpaper. I close my eyes, picturing Hendrix's hand in my hair, feeling the rough way he grabbed me, the twinge of pain that rocketed through me as he yanked the hair by the roots. When I slide my hand over my breast now, heat rushes between my legs, and I can't imagine anyone's hand there except Hendrix's.
Hendrix should be the last person on earth I fantasize about. I should be picturing anyone else -- one of the movie stars I know, any one of the myriad gorgeous male country singers I'm friends with, or hell, someone I've dated. Even that jerk-ass ex-boyfriend of mine.
Anyone but Hendrix.
But Hendrix is the only one I can picture, the only one I want to imagine.
I run my hand up the inside of my leg and between my thighs, finding my clit. My fingers roll easily over it, aided by my wetness, and I exhale heavily as arousal courses through my body. I imagine Hendrix's hands on me, roaming my body, Hendrix's hands in my hair.
Hendrix's lips on mine, his tongue finding my tongue.
His face buried between my legs.
When I slide my finger lower, finding my entrance, I'm already close to the brink. And when I press my palm firmly against my clit, my fingers lodged deeply inside me, I crash over the edge almost immediately.
It's Hendrix's face I see.
And Hendrix's name that escapes my lips, less of a word and more of a moan, when I come.
A minute later, the throbbing between my legs still hasn't subsided, and I open my eyes. The realization of what just happened overwhelms me.
I just came thinking about Hendrix.
It's not like that's the first time it happened. But it's the first time it's happened in years. It's definitely the first time it's happened with him right in the other room.
"Addy." Hendrix speaks my name, his voice low and gravelly, from the other side of the door.
Shit.
He wasn't even in the other room. He was on the other side of the door. Embarrassment washes over me like a tidal wave, and I swallow hard. Surely he didn't hear what I just did. Surely he didn't hear me moan his name.
"Open the fucking door," he demands.
I don't move. "No," I say, my voice softer than I intend.
"I know, Addy," he says. He doesn't push open the door, the way he so easily could. Do I want him to? A few weeks ago, I would have vehemently answered no to that question. After what he did to me, what he said...he could rot in hell as far as I was concerned. When he left, I never wanted to see him again. Except that I never could get him out of my mind.