Page 213 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“You know, no one believed we were both sick.” Her hands rest on our bucket list on her lap.
Finally, with the rightful owners.
“Yeah, well, that bucket list item was written back when two teens were planning to fake sick and skip school, so I’d say we’re as close to crossing it off as we’re ever gonna get.”
“Except the second part.” Her voice is hesitant.
Our eyes lock again.
Knowing.
Wanting.
But it’s too soon. It’s way too damn soon.
I shift in my seat, clearing my throat. “Hiding out in a barn loft until school ended is one thing, but I always thought sex in a loft of hay would be rather itchy.”
Her lips purse. “We made out in a loft of hay.”
The memory is embedded in my head.
“We had our clothes on.” I hope to hell I sound controlled. “Take the clothes off, there are a whole lot of opportunities for hay rash.”
My eyes flicker to the road, then back to hers. Her gaze is electric, bold, but still guarded. I can’t wait until that invisible shield comes down, when the uncertainty between us fades, and we’re just...us again.
“I think that would add to the experience.” There’s that sexual spark of the girl I used to know.
I run my tongue along the inside of my lip to keep from suggesting we find that hay bale, get naked, and spend the day together making out with the possibility of getting hay rash.
My hands would love to slide over every curve and dip of her rough denim legs. To linger at her hips, glide over the fabric of her shirt, bunching the material, without removing it. To cup her breasts through the cotton, pinch her nipples, and rubthe warmth between her legs, knowing the denim barrier would both frustrate and excite her.
An old-school make-out session, like behind the theatre’s curtain, sounds fucking amazing.
I drag my gaze back to the road. “I thought we should start small. Like a secret tattoo.” My fingers drum the steering wheel. “We can kill two birds with one stone, considering the second part is the secret place.”
It involves neither of us touching each other. It’s one of the very few in the list.
Her boots tap lightly against the floorboard; her mouth twitches as if she’s holding back a smile.
“First off, a tattoo is not small. Second off”—she looks at me—“I already have a secret tattoo.”
I blink multiple times before I remember I’m driving, but I catch that smug little grin of hers just before my eyes have to focus on the morning traffic.
“Where?”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s a secret.”
“It’s our secret,” I shoot back.
She looks out the windshield. “I’m not telling you.”
“Then show me.”
She laughs, shaking her head.
“I’m only ten percent joking.” My fingers tighten around the wheel.
“You want me to pull my pants down right here?”
