Excerpt One:
Henley Rose and a hot car go together like peaches and cream, like fine Scotch and a long, dirty night. Which means working with her was like walking into the Garden of Eden every single day. It was a test of willpower because the woman could craft a car as if it were an erotic dance.
Not a striptease.
Not an in-your-face pelvis thrust.
But a beautiful fucking ballet of a woman seducing machine. Those hands, the way she wielded tools, the intensity in her focus—it was sensual, and it was sinful, and it was this man’s fantasy made flesh.
Imagine what it was like working with her for one, hard-on year.
I mean, hard year.
I survived the challenge because she had talent to spare. And I never treated her differently because she was a woman, or because I thought about her naked an obscene amount of the time. I treated her like anyone else—specifically, all the people I work with who I never ever imagine in anything less than full-on Siberian winter garb, complete with the thermals and Michelin Man coat.
“Black heart still intact.” I tap my sternum. “Same model as before.”
“I’d have thought you’d get an upgrade by now. Faulty parts and all.”
“No recall needed on the ticker. It works just fine in this cruel bastard.” I say, reminding her of the words she’d uttered the day she stormed out.
She arches a brow. “Shame. You should have let me replace it. I’m good at making all sorts of clunkers run better.”
Jesus Christ. She still takes no prisoners. “I’ve no doubt you have all the tools to fix anything, and if you couldn’t find the right one, you’d use a blowtorch.”
She adopts an expression of indignation. “There’s nothing wrong with using a blowtorch,” she says, taking extra time on the first syllable.
How the hell did I ever last with this woman? Before I can even fashion a comeback, she taps her toe against the tire on Wagner’s car. “I see you still like to make your cars with big, manly wheels.”
I roll my eyes then make a give it to me now motion with my hands. “All right, Henley. Deliver the punchline.”
She bats her lashes. “What punchline?”
“Big? Manly? You’re going to say it’s some sort of compensation thing going on. That’s what you always said about the guys who wanted the biggest cars with the biggest wheels.”
She smirks. “Was I wrong in my assessment?”
I laugh. “I don’t know. I didn’t check to see how that added up for them.”
“Nor did I. My focus was always on the work.”
“As well it should have been.”
“That’s what you taught me.”
“I’m glad you learned that lesson.”
“I learned so many lessons from you.”
Excerpt Two:
I point to the guy behind the glass. “You want Peter’s number?”
“I don’t know. Do you think he likes piňa coladas and making love in the rain?”
For a flash second, a burst of wildfire curls through my veins. It feels like white-hot jealousy. Which is ridiculous since she’s not making love to Peter.
Or me, for that matter, obviously.
I fight off the envy with a full dose of sarcasm. “Have you ever noticed you never have a good pair of headphones when you need them?”
She huffs. “Message received. I’ll just shut up and read a book.” She reaches for her phone on the seat, but accidentally knocks it to the floor of the car. I lean down to pick it up, and when I hand it to her I see her playlist.
Nena’s “99 Luftballoons.”
The Go-Go’s “Vacation.”
Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”
I smirk. That’s too fucking adorable. “You like bubblegum pop?”
Her cheeks go red. “There’s nothing wrong with bubblegum pop,” she says as she tries to grab her phone from my hand.
I. Can’t. Resist.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s the way this girl needles me. It’s her French maid routine. It’s her pushing all my buttons. It’s the way she detests me.
I hold her phone behind my head.
“Max,” she says, in a perfect plea. God, it’s hot. I can hear her saying it in bed.
I feign surprise. “Oh, did you want your phone back, tiger?”
Her eyes widen when I use that word. Frankly, I’m surprised I said it. But she is a tiger, especially right now as she leans across the seat, reaching for it.
Damn, I’m an asshole. And yet, I can’t seem to stop playing keep-away with her phone, jamming it far behind me so that it hits the side of the car. She lunges for it, thrusting her arm out, but only hitting my forearm.
She swats me. “Give it to me.”
My brain short-circuits. She would sound hot saying that bent over the bed.
Then in a flurry, she unbuckles her seat belt and lunges at me.
Foul play indeed.
She’s on me. She’s fucking on me. She climbs, stretching high, her tits near my motherfucking face, so help me God. They are saggy, drooping, ugly breasts.
Except they’re not.
They’re perfect. Lush, ripe.
Like her sweet perfume scent. Like her cinnamon breath that flutters across my cheek as she rises higher. As she reaches, her T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of her stomach.
I’ve never seen anything so sexy in my life.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
I simply try not to grow more aroused. But then she wraps one hand around my wrist and pries the phone with the other as her breasts smash against my eyes.
Man down.
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