Page 68 of A Winter in New York

“No. I mean, God, yes. Yes I do.” He unhooks my bra and I yank my jumper over my head so I’m naked from the waist up.

“Hot as hell,” he murmurs, trailing his mouth between my collarbones. “Like touching the surface of the goddamn sun.”

“Good save,” I murmur, aching for more. “I’ve never had sex in the backseat of a car before. Nor the front seat, for that matter.”

“Me either,” he says, kissing me hard on the mouth as he flicks the button of my jeans open. He kisses me some more as he eases the zip down, and then some more, slow and deep, as his hand moves inside my jeans and underwear, his fingers no longer cold as they slide into me.

“This might be the best moment of my life,” I gasp, and I feel his smile against my mouth.

“It’s pretty high on my list too,” he says as I unbutton his jeans and push them down. He sucks in a sharp gasp of air and closes his eyes when my hand closes around him, and we’re frustrated because my jeans are too high up my thighsand his are restricting his movement. He’s making it both worse and better by cursing in Italian, and I’m laughing and gasping as I wriggle around to shove my jeans below my knees until at last he can settle between my legs and push himself inside me.

“Thank fucking God,” he mutters, and I swallow hard and nod, delirious with relief and shocking, eye-watering pleasure.

“I take it back,” I say. “This is the best moment.”

And then he slows everything down, his mouth gentle over my face, his hand smoothing my hair away from my forehead, his eyes intense on mine as his breath hitches in his throat. I move under him, pushing my knee out against the leather seat so I can lift my hips and hold him closer, and he sighs my name and bites his bottom lip. I wouldn’t have imagined backseat sex could feel tender, but this does. We’re in our own world right now, a Cadillac of dreams, and we take our sweet time over each other.

“Welcome to Coney Island,” he says afterward, his forehead resting on mine.

“Every bit as thrilling as the guidebooks claim,” I say, my heart banging against his.

“You should see it in summer,” he says.

“I think I prefer it in winter,” I say.

He kisses me, unhurried and satisfied. “Yeah, me too.”

“Shall we stay here like this all night?”

He huffs. “I’d never walk again.”

I laugh. “I think I might have dislocated my hip, but it was worth it.”

He eases away from me, and we shuffle-drag our clothes back into place and flop side by side, as if we’ve just crossedthe marathon finish line. I’m grateful when he reaches into his coat and silently hands me the brandy.

“You’re like a Saint Bernard,” I say, pressing the flask to my lips. “Always rescuing me.”

He frowns and shakes his head, but I see the smile behind his expression and I lean my head on his shoulder and smile too. So much quiet joy in the man. So much love.

28.

Tuesday morning dawns bitter cold,and I lie in bed remembering the night before. Did I say something about Saint Bernards and a swat team of angels? It’s hazy, but what I’m left with is a glow that has nothing to do with celestial beings and everything to do with what happened on the backseat of the Cadillac. My early romance experiences were not terribly exciting, I was too busy rushing about in steamy kitchens every night to fool around. Last night classed as A-star, top-grade fooling around. It was hands-down the most thrilling sex of my entire life. I don’t think either of us expected to be so deliriously turned on by the whole deserted car lot thing—maybe we’re both overdue a little excitement in our lives.

I pull my phone from beneath my pillow when it buzzes.

I’ve def put my back out.

I pull the quilt over my shoulders and curl on my side, warm and comfortable.

That’s what happens when you seduce girls in the back of cars.

I’m pretty sure it was your idea…

I laugh as I close my eyes and think back. Brandy. Trumpets. Let’s make out in the backseat. Yep, guilty as charged. My phone beeps again before I can formulate a response, and I’m still smiling as I check it. It’s not from Gio.

Oh little mouse, now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings. Maybe I should head on out to see you and smooth things over, deliver your Christmas gift in person. You can show me the sights, make me some of your ice cream. You like the sound of that?

I feel blistered, as if someone tipped a boiling kettle over me. It’s too swift a gear change for my brain to handle, from the heaven of last night to the hell of Adam Bronson. It’s as if he’s reared right up out of my cellphone into the safety and stillness of my bedroom. My phone vibrates again, another new message, and I curl into a tight ball and screw my eyes shut, too frightened to look. It vibrates again and again, until I hurl it at the wall and lurch for the bathroom on shaky legs to retch my guts up.

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