Page 62 of Blue Collar Babes

“What are you doing?” The words mingle in the breath between us.

“Kissing you.”

“I’m really fucking glad I locked that door.”

He barely finishes the words before his lips are on mine. It’s a claiming, a reacquaintance, a dance of lips and tongues that is both new and achingly familiar.

His tongue tangles with mine, and he deepens the kiss while his hands knead my hips and light a fire that filters through my blood.

I tangle my fingers in his too-long hair, the feel of the thick strands tickling me as they glide along my palms. Thank God I wore a flowy dress tonight and can widen my legs as he steps between them.

My breasts ache, begging for his touch that stays frustratingly at my hips. For my part, my legs and arms are wrapped around him like a barnacle in a desperate need to move closer and feed the fire he’s sparked.

“Fuck.” His fingers tighten almost painfully and grip the fabric that prevents skin-on-skin contact.

At the first rattle of the door in the jamb, we break apart like guilty teenagers. It’s a familiar look given how often my parents, his mom, or his Uncle Joe interrupted a kiss.

“Hello? Anyone in there? Why is this door locked?”

I turn panic-stricken eyes on Shep.

Shit, shit, shit. It’s the last person I want to catch me in a locked bathroom with my ex-boyfriend.

Danielle Owens-Hart.

Shep lifts a finger to his lips and I nod. He doesn’t have to worry. I don’t plan on saying a fucking word.

“Hello?”

The door rattles again, and I swear the loud pounding of my heart is going to give us away. After several agonizing seconds, the clack of her heels fades away.

Confident that she’s gone, I push Shep far enough back for me to hop off the counter. I plead temporary insanity for the last few minutes. I’ll blame the nostalgia of the song, the reunion, anything I can.

I’m not waiting for Danielle to come back with a member of the staff who has a key for the bathroom. I move fast and slide the lock back to the unlocked position.

Shep’s fingers wrap around my wrist and foil my attempt at a speedy escape.

“We’re not done with this conversation,” he tells me.

I yank my wrist free of his grasp.

“I know.”

“Later then.”

It’s more than just a phrase.

It’s a promise.

But the question is, am I looking forward to later? Or not?

THREE

SHEP

“Yo!” Jagger’s voice echoes through the bay, overriding the Morgan Wallen song on the radio.

“Under here. One minute.”

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