Page 106 of Crash Course

My legs wrap around his hips. “I’m on the pill.”

He traps my chin in his fingers, like he needs to believe what I’m saying. “I’ve been tested. But—”

“I trust you.” I do, I realize.

His expression fills with gratitude and something more.

His hand threads through mine, pins it over my head, his thumb tracing circles in my palm.

I hear the zip of his jeans, and a moment later, he presses inside. I choke on the sensations of him over me, in me.

He keeps going, his hair tickling my face. My throat tightens as I arch to take all of him. I want him to crawl inside me, to see where I live, to know my dark sides.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he mumbles against my throat.

The hood of the car is hard against my bare back. When he hitches me up, it sticks to my skin, tugging and stinging.

Jameson’s so deep in me that his groan rumbles through my body. Our sweat mingles as his nose grazes mine. His lips brush my throat as he strokes inside over and over.

Nothing has ever felt as intense, as consuming, as this. Having Jameson Ashford, the man who has everything, want this as much as I do makes it matter even more. I meet him every stroke, hitting his rhythm and changing it, making it into one that’s only ours.

His eyes are indigo, warm with hunger and something more, and a million miles deep. If I’m drowning, I’m beyond being saved.

The lights flicker, as if the garage can’t handle what we’re doing.

You and me both.

His hand slips between us, between my thighs. I buck against him, every part of me pulling tighter.

“Oh my God,” I pant.

Jameson’s breathless and gorgeous and triumphant. “Say it again.” His lips fuse to my damp throat.

When I come, my entire body shaking, he holds me like I’m all he needs. Everything up to this point lit the match, and his confessions set fire to me.

He breaks too, his muscles bunching under my hands, his hips flexed and jaw tight.

I feel every bit as wrecked. He rolls us over so I’m on top, my damp face pressed to his chest.

I’m not sure what this is, but if it ever stops?

I might not survive.

34

Shay

“Table eight is taking forever,” Bree whispers, glancing over the pass-through at the four truckers.

I stack clean plates on the counter. “They’re enjoying their meal.”

“They’ve been enjoying it for two hours.”

I grab a fresh pot of coffee and run it over to them. “Top-up?”

They nod and I pour each before heading back to the pass, a bounce in my step.

“Are you whistling?” Bree demands.