“Do that to me now,” she said, her breathing turning erratic, her sounds reminding him how close they were flirting with danger.
Too close.
Like the moment before a back draft.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered, but words like that were pointless when she turned the tables, slipping an agile hand inside his shorts, and with a quickness he hadn’t expected, wrapping those fingers around his cock.
“I know,” she said as she caressed him. “We shouldn’t be doing this at all.”
She felt so f**king fantastic that he was damn near ready to throw all caution to the wind and f**k her without a glove, but there was no way that would happen. Hell, if she kept stroking him with those soft, talented fingers, he was going to come in her hand, and that wasn’t acceptable either. With all the self-restraint he possessed, he removed her hand from his briefs.
“If I stop now, I won’t feel like a total ass,” he said through gritted teeth.
She nodded, her eyes wild and hazy. She pushed a hand through her hair. “Stop. Yes. No ass**les allowed here,” she said, as if she were reminding herself.
Somehow, they managed to untangle themselves from each other, to readjust their clothes, to breathe normally again, and they started to walk to the dirt parking lot not too far away. She stopped briefly, pointing to the meandering river, the only witness to their entanglement moments ago. “Hey, Becker. I really do think we should shoot you by the river.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because you look good by the water. It suits you.”
It was a shoot. It was only a photo shoot. He’d managed restraint that should earn him a goddamn Olympic gold medal. He could do that again. He took a beat, nodded once, and never stopped looking at her, her beautiful brown eyes captivating him. “Then we’ll shoot by the river.”
“How about tomorrow morning?”
“Same time?”
“Morning light is the best light,” she said as they resumed their path.
He didn’t say out loud that there’d be nobody there in the morning. Just like today. He didn’t want to acknowledge the temptation. Maybe because he wanted to believe he could manage it. He wanted to believe nothing could harm his friendship with Travis.
…
Her hand was itching to touch his. The desire to be connected to him physically was like electricity, stirring the air. Given how he’d touched her only moments ago, her body was still vibrating with need. She craved the feel of his strong hand in hers, and the force of that desire surprised her.
Yet it felt entirely natural to want that from Becker.
As they walked to the lot together, she lifted her fingers a few times, reaching toward him, then dropping them back down to her side, trapped by this strange indecision. She wanted to stroll to their vehicles together, fingers clasped. That warm, comforting image was so potent right now, and it felt like the right gesture after their morning together. Surely he was the kind of man who’d hold her hand, especially after that near-O she’d just about achieved.
But then, there was something about holding hands that felt like a promise of more. More times, more moments, more connection. Almost-orgasms were one thing; deeper intimacy was another. Holding hands while walking together would be another line to cross. It was the quieter hint of where things were headed; it was the sweet contact between lovers who were connecting outside the bedroom, too. Holding hands would be some kind of symbol that acknowledged what was happening between them.
And whatever was happening was bound to become far too treacherous for her heart. She felt healed from the loss of her father; she’d made it through, she’d survived, and she’d learned. She lived on the other side of the pain and the grief. That healed heart—such a precious gift that so many people never reached, or took for granted when they did—needed protection, didn’t it? The heart could be a fearless creature, prone to parading around town na**d and unafraid. It needed the brain to keep it safe from its own propensity for foolish acts.
Even on a temporary basis. Perhaps especially since she and Becker could only be temporary. She didn’t want to head north with an aching in her chest from missing him. Because she would miss him.
She kept her hand to herself. She kept her heart shielded safely in its cage where it could behave.
When she reached the parking lot, he eyed her motorcycle. “Dangerous beasts. I’ve seen far too many accidents on bikes.” He opened the door of his truck. “Why don’t you let me pick you up tomorrow?”
“You’ll be my chauffeur, then?”
“Yes.”
She gave him the address, he repeated it once, then tapped the side of his head. “Now it’s there. In permanent ink.”
“Be careful of permanent ink,” she warned, and she had a feeling neither one of them was talking about writing implements. Especially when he moved first, brushing away a strand of hair that had dared to flutter across her cheek. The slightest touch from his fingertips lit up her insides, like a neon sign turned on after dark. Her breathing turned shallow as he tucked that hair behind her ear. Then he lowered his hand.
“Be careful on that beast.”
“Don’t worry. The speedometer is broken, so that makes me go extra slow.”
His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Extra slow?”
“Just kidding. It’s just the oil gauge that’s broken. Trav is going to help me fix it,” she said with a wink.