Page 98 of Love Me Tomorrow

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” I hit the button, sending the passenger’s side window to half-mast. “I’m just . . . so . . . wet.”

I turn, in time, to see his Adam’s apple slick down the length of his throat. “We’ll be there in five.”

Is it just me, or does he sound like he’s being virtually strangled?

Perfect.

Feeling more confident, I move to the shorts that I dragged up my legs, for the sake of modesty, when we left City Park. Now I hook my fingers in the waistband, lift my butt, and plant my heels on the square floor mat for leverage.Down they go.

I drop them beside my purse.

Looking flustered, Owen snags his ballcap from his head and throws it on the dashboard. “Three minutes. Just three more minutes and then I’m goin’ to make you—”

His words die an instant death when I lean over the center console, press my lips to his throat, and palm his cock through his board shorts.

“Oh,fuck,” he groans, his hips straining under my hand. Abruptly the truck veers to the right, coasting, before straightening out again just as sharply. Shamelessly, I run my palm up the length of him, then fiddle with the knotted drawstring until I can wedge my hand under the elastic waistband and wrap my hand around him. One slow, tight pump, and Owen bursts, “God, that feels good.”

I smile against his throat, feeling the truck bang a hard left onto what I assume is his street.

My hand doesn’t stop, though. All’s fair in love and war—isn’t that how the saying goes? I drag my hand up, my thumb flicking over his piercing, and then sink my palm down to the root of his cock. Up, and down, up, and down, until I belatedly realize that we’re parked in his driveway and that it’s not only my hand jerking him off, but now his too.

His breathing comes in harsh, shallow pants that have me squirming with desire in my seat.

It’s broad daylight and though the windows are tinted, they aren’tthatdark. Not dark enough to hide the fact that Owen’s head is thrown back against the headrest or that his chest is rising with each ragged inhalation or—and especially this—that this feels absolutely crazy but so right all at once.

I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman giving a man a hand job in the front seat of his truck—I didn’t even pull these sorts of wild stunts back in college . . . or ever.

Owen’s calloused palm tightens around my hand, silently urging me to pick up speed. My gaze darts to his face, taking him in, andoh, God. He is, hands down, the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Veins popping in his throat, white teeth digging into his bottom lip, black eyes hooded and trained on me—on my mouth.

I whisper his name, plaintive and needy, and match his pace, moving our fists faster as his pupils dilate, and a sweep of color warms his cheeks.

He groans, deep in his throat. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna come.”

I don’t allow myself time to think. Hastily, I rearrange my body, aware of the gear shift digging into my side, and swipe my tongue over the crown of his cock. His free hand flies to the back of my head, and words are tripping off his tongue—endearments, too—but they’re lost to the roar of blood rushing through my head and the sudden realization this might be the single most erotic, spontaneous hookup session of my entire life.

I swirl my tongue over his pierced head, all the while wholly aware that Owen is fucking my mouth just as we are, together, fucking his cock with our hands. It’s a heady thought, completely lewd and brazen, and I’m so turned on that all my concerns and worries from the last week take a hike as though I’ve flipped a switch.

“Shit,” he whispers harshly, “Rose, if you don’t want—”

I tighten my grip, sucking him in a little deeper, and he comes with his hips flexing off the seat and that hand in my hair twisting through the strands to keep me close. I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing every drop of him, and only slow the pumps of my hand when I hear him breathe out, “Sav . . . your cat is watching us.”

My head jerks up, and sure enough, Pablo is staring back at me like I’ve just done him dirty.

“Oh, my God, we’ve scarred him,” I whisper.

Owen combs his fingers through my hair, his thumb grazing the tattooed bird behind my ear. “He had to learn about the birds and the bees at some point.”

“He’s three!”

“What is that? Twenty-one in cat years?” Owen’s entire body shakes with deep laughter. “After what he just saw, Pablo might have to see a cat therapist. You think he’d go to Satan for a session?”

The fact that Owen is having the time of his life with this shows me all that I need to know: life with Owen Harvey would always be an adventure, and it would always be fun, even if “fun” entails discussing much-needed therapy for my cat after he just watched me give Owen a hand job.

Some things, you just can’t make up.

Pulling back, I grab my bag off the floor, pop a kiss on Owen’s cheek, and throw open the passenger-side door—but not before nabbing the keys from the ignition. “Catch me if you can, Harvey, and we’ll finish off somewhere that Pablo can’t play voyeur.”

I’m out of the truck and hitting the steps up to the second-floor entrance, all in the span of a heartbeat. I hear Owen’s muttered curse and Pablo’s annoyedmeow, probably as Owen tries to grab him, and then the telltalethwack-thwack-thwackof my flip-flops hitting the wooden rungs. Fumbling with the keys, I try one, then another, in the lock.

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