Page 70 of Against the Clock

“Yeah,” I say on an exhalation.

He removes his fingers from between my legs, and when he brings them to his mouth, licking them, my eyes get wide.

Devilish, he grins over at me, his eyes shining with lust and satisfaction all at once. “I’m really glad you said yes to being my girlfriend.”

“Me too,” I say, and his smile grows even bigger.

A few minutes tick by. I curl my legs up under me, tugging my dress down.

“Where are your underwear?” he asks. “Can I see them?”

I raise an eyebrow, but pick them up off the floorboards and hand them over.

He tucks them in his pocket carefully, one hand on the wheel. “Thanks,” he says impishly, and I laugh in surprise.

“What are you going to do with those?”

“Keep them. They’re mine now. My truck, my rules.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yep. How does pasta sound for dinner? I make a mean fettuccine alfredo.”

“Really good,” I say, and my stomach growls in agreement.

“We should be there in about ten minutes,” he says. “You know, making you come definitely made the trip seem shorter.”

“It made me sleepy,” I admit, and his smile turns sweet.

“Well, I have a huge, comfortable bed for you to curl up in. And I have this heater that works great in it, if you get chilly.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep,” he says, lifting the side of his shirt, exposing muscled abdomen. “See? Cuddling for warmth approved.”

It should give me whiplash, how fast he goes from dirty-talking and fingering me in the front seat of his truck to being downright adorable, but it’s so perfectly Daniel Harrison that I simply laugh.

It doesn’t give me whiplash. It makes me feel like he’s going to take care of me, no matter what it is I need.

And I could get very, very used to that.

CHAPTER 28

KELSEY

By the time we make it to Daniel’s house, it’s pitch-black outside, stars obscured by thick bands of clouds that hang heavy in front of the nearly full moon. Bugs and nightbirds sing, and yet it’s so quiet compared to the bustle of the city that I stand still in his driveway for a moment, breathing the crisp night air and reveling in the looseness of my body.

“Hungry?” Daniel asks, wrapping his arm around my waist and kissing my forehead.

“Starving,” I say. “‘Hotel California’ did not serve the feast it promised.”

A laugh booms out of him, and we make our way inside, through the front door this time.

“Your house is really nice,” I say, and some of my awkwardness comes back. It’s more than nice, and it’s a reminder of all the ways that we don’t match well.

It’s not a house. It’s a mansion masquerading as a house, with expensive wood floors and plush carpets that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

“You’re really nice,” he says. “You make my house look good. Come on. You need food for what I have planned for you.”

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