Page 88 of Wild Card
“Don’t touch anything,” he ordered. “And this is a date. Stop pretending it’s not.”
So both, then.
“It’s dinner and a hookup. You saying it’s a date doesn’t mean it is.”
“And you saying it’s not doesn’t mean it isn’t.”
“Dalton…”
“I know this is hard for you, darlin’, but a date is the general definition of what we’re doing. There will be dinner, there will be talking, and?—”
“Hooking up?” I suggested like a smart-ass.
Dalton caged me in against the frame of the car, raising his thumb to stroke over my bottom lip. Why was that so sexy?
“Only if you behave.”
He pushed his thumb into my mouth, and I closed my lips around it, sucking. My eyes slipped closed, and I gave my best pornographic moan.
A quiet groan escaped of him, and he pulled away. I grinned as he readjusted his dick in his pants.
“You sure you want me to behave?”
His brown eyes went molten. “Not too much. Just a little. Try it for me, okay? I want to know you better.”
Damn, how did he do that? I was sure I had turned the tables on him, but he got me again.
“Fine, we can have dinner, but we better fuck when it’s over.”
He laughed, low and dirty, making my blood fire with lust. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Dalton waited until I was buckled in like a good boy, and then he jogged around the car to slip into the driver’s seat. I reached for the receiver, but he intercepted my hand. “No touching anything in here.”
I changed direction, settling my hand on his thigh. “Not even this?”
He slanted me an amused look. “Okay, touch nothing but me.”
I inched my hand a little higher, smiling coyly. “Good to know.”
I spread my fingers, nudging up against his dick, and he grabbed my hand, enfolding it in his. “Maybe don’t distract me too much, though.”
“Always ruining my fun.”
He chuckled. “Sorry, darlin’, but I think you need someone to rein you in.”
“Darlin’?” I protested.
He raised an eyebrow. “You prefer asshole?”
“Maybe I do.”
His lips quirked. “Always denying what you really want.”
“Am not,” I muttered sullenly, to which he didn’t even bother replying. Not even to call me darlin’. Which was good because I didn’t need soft little pet names. That wasn’t who I was. This wasn’t even a real date.
Dalton drove down the rutted road that passed by the auto shop, then pulled out onto the blacktop. I was surprised when he didn’t head toward town.
“Where do you live?”
