ZOEY
Making out with Warner was not part of the plan.
But I think it's a fantastic addition.
I meant to just brush my lips against his. A quick thank you.
But once I get a taste, I'm a ravenous shark scenting blood.
Okay, not the sexiest metaphor. But seeing as how I want to consume Warner; I still think it's apt.
"Zoey." He groans my name against my mouth as I settle on his lap, my thighs spread and circling his hips so I can press closer. My dress rides up, leaving just the thin cotton of my underwear as a barrier between my center and his rough jeans.
My name on his lips is like hearing my favorite song on the radio. I want to hit replay, but know I have no control over when I'll hear it again. So, I enjoy it while I can.
My fingers tangle in his soft hair. My tongue traces the seam of his mouth. My hips rock, pressing into his groin.
He gets hard beneath my onslaught.
And a stab of guilt rips through me at the realization, so quick and painful that I tear my lips away from his.
Warner flirts and charms, and he's given me a few kisses in the past, but that doesn't mean I have free range to maul him.
"I'm sorry. Hell. I'm attacking you." Bracing my hands on his shoulders, I try to rise from his lap, which turns out to be a much harder maneuver than getting there. Probably because I don't want to go.
An unhappy growl pairs with clasping hands on my ass, holding me in place. When I stop trying to get up, Warner buries his nose in my neck, and I can feel him breathing against me, his hot breath raising goosebumps all over my skin.
"You're not scared of me?" His whisper comes out hoarse, and arousal threatens to choke me at the feel of his mouth moving against my throat.
"No."
"And you"—his fingers flex, gaining better purchase on my butt—"want me?"
Want him?
My imagination takes hold, playing out the rest of this scenario. How he'd reach in between us to unzip his jeans. Then, after pulling my underwear to the side, he'd push into me. And I would get to ride him all the way to Orgasm Town.
The fantasy makes me lightheaded, and I almost forget to answer. But when he pulls his head back to meet my eyes, my abrupt, question-prone nature takes hold.
"I want to have sex with you. When do you get off work? And do you want to have sex? With me?" I'm not sure how I'll handle a rejection, but it's better to get a clear answer upfront.
Warner blinks, and his hands relax. But they don't push me away. Instead, he trails his touch up and down my back.
As if to soothe me.
Oh no. Here comes that clear rejection.
"I'm not at work. Harvey lets me use his garage to store my projects." He nods over my shoulder at the gutted bike. "We can leave whenever you want."
So that's a yes?
"Now. I want to go now."
Warner's mouth curls into a breathtaking smile, as if I've just told him he's won the lottery.
Not that I'm giving myself airs.
But just as fast as it appears, the joy on his face begins to dim.
"No! What's happening in your head?" My fingers press into his cheeks as if I can force that glorious smile back on his face. A chuckle sneaks out of his chest, but his eyes contain a wariness I want to make disappear.
"Zoey . . . you wanting to sleep with me . . . is that part of the apology?" He hesitates through his question.
"The scarf is your apology gift. Not my vagina." I cup his face. "I want to get you naked because you're handsome and funny and sexy and sweet." I start breathing heavier as I list his positive qualities. The image of him sprawled in a bed beneath me, all his clothes gone, has that ravenous shark feeling coming back to full force. "Can I be on top? Do you mind? It's my favorite position. Or do we need to do it doggy style? I like that way to, but only if we have a mirror so I can see you. Do werewolves have sex like humans?"
Realizing I've rattled off a whole list of questions, I bite my tongue and give Warner a moment to respond.
The guy stares at me with his mouth slightly agape, which just reminds me of how good he tasted. Not like any food. More like salt and heat.
And hell in a hand basket, I am hot. Feverish really.
When I left the cabin wearing a dress, I dealt with the chill of the fall day by blasting the heat in the truck and trying to stay in the sunnier spots when I was outside. But now that I've twined myself around the living furnace that is Warner, the combined heat of his body and raging force of my lust threatens to melt my brain.
Without warning, Warner stands, clutching me to him with his hands on my ass. Once he's upright, he loosens his hold so I slide down his body. My legs wobble as I gain my footing, and I learn that it's possible to get drunk on another human.
Or a supernatural creature.
Normally chatty, Warner is giving me nothing back, and his silence starts to pluck at my introverted anxiety.
This is one of the reasons I'm prone to turn into a hermit. No one can refuse to talk to you when you're alone. They can't hurt your feelings if you never try to be their friend. Or invite them into your bed.
My half-melted brain starts plummeting into the realm of self-doubt and formulates an escape plan. I'm so befuddled by Warner's nearness, the only get-out idea that I can think of is run.
Just as I take an unsteady step toward the exit, Warner's palm presses into my lower back, and he drops his head to whisper in my ear.
"Yes, you can be on top. If I minded that, then I wouldn't deserve your time. We'll definitely do doggy style, too. I'll buy a mirror if I have to. And werewolves have sex like humans, except that I have more stamina, so you'll have to let me know when you need to take a Gatorade break."
Oh shit. I may have just come.
"I can fix it," a gruff voice announces, shocking me out of my lust inferno. The owner of the shop, Harvey I think Warner called him, lets the door swing shut behind him as he re-enters the garage.
Thank goodness I didn't succeed in fucking Warner here.
Still, an awkward silence descends over our group when Harvey's eyes land on me and his face gets a deer-in-the-headlights look. I glance down at myself, remembering the handprints on my boobs.
In the last few minutes, I have acquired a variety of stains on my dress. There are streaks on my waist and the skirt where I pressed up against Warner, and I'm betting I have a few more clear handprints on my ass.
But who cares?
I'm about to fuck the guy. So what if the foreplay got a little dirty?
Harvey clears his throat and a frown mars his whiskered face. "Your talk go well?"
"It's not—" Warner starts, but I cut him off.
"Just look at me." I twirl to show off the variety of oil stains on my once pure white dress. "Of course it did!" I end my display by letting all my excitement for what's about to happen infuse my grin. "Now, if you wouldn't mind letting me know the damage, we can get settled up. And then I can take Mr. Handsy home with me."