Her heart was pounding in her chest, the interior of her Civic fogging up as she sedately backed out of the parking lot into traffic. Her stomach fluttered as she drove home without catching sight of … of … what the hell was his name?
Startled, almost hysterical laughter burst from her lips. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she said to herself, peering through the rain-lashed windshield. The wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge, and he was nowhere in sight. But when she rounded the corner to the quiet street, she saw his bike turn up the driveway to the Craftsman house she was renting from a professor currently on sabbatical. She pushed the button to open the garage door. He walked his bike inside, standing to the side as she drove in and parked.
Water streamed from his clothes to the cement floor of the single-car garage. He’d removed his helmet—his hair clung to his forehead as he watched her walk around the back bumper—then set it down on the bike seat. For a long moment, she looked at him, at his full-lipped mouth, at his blue eyes flashing in the dim-lit space, at his broad shoulders stretching the sheepskin-lined leather jacket, and listened to her body. His feet were braced apart, the energy she felt coiled under his skin transmitting despite the seemingly easy stance, and his gaze was even. Not challenging, not sultry, just a simple statement. Here I am. Let’s see what you’ve got.
The confidence inherent in his attitude was unfamiliar to her, but very intriguing. Her skin felt tight, sensitized to the droplets of rain trickling from her collar and sleeves. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She tipped her head to indicate he should follow her along the covered walkway leading from the garage to the back door. Once inside, he glanced quickly at the kitchen, then through the widened arch leading to the dining and living rooms.
“I’m going to drip all over your floors.”
Puddles were already forming at his booted feet. “I’d let you, except they’re not my floors,” she said. “I’m house-sitting for a professor who’s on sabbatical in Australia. Stay there.”
She shucked her raincoat and hung it from the row of hooks by the back door, then walked down the basement stairs to the laundry area, where she found a clean load of towels stacked on the dryer, all the time expecting to hear the back door close because he’d come to his senses. She grabbed two towels and hurried back upstairs to the kitchen.
Still there. Still dripping on the slate. The reality of what they were about to do hit her, and she clutched the towels to her chest like she was the one saturated with rain. The plan was simple. Motorcycle, skydiving, all to work her way up to dating, and because she wasn’t dating or in a long-term relationship, she wasn’t on the pill and hadn’t bought condoms.
The plan was fucked.
“I don’t have condoms,” she said.
Without batting an eyelash, he reached into the lining of his jacket and tossed his wallet on the counter. She crossed the kitchen. Rainwater seeped into the soles of her knee-high socks as she stood in front of him. He took one of the towels from her and ran it over his hair, then his face. “May I?” she murmured, oblique, trusting him to read her mind. Not really asking.
He seemed to get that, because one corner of his mouth curled up, the smile not quite lighting up the shadows in, and under, his blue eyes. She flattened her palms against his chest, flexed her fingertips into the muscle, felt his nipples harden under the heels of her hands before sliding the jacket off his shoulders. It was surprisingly heavy, and the scent of lanolin and his skin rose from the warm folds as she hung it from the hook next to her raincoat, intoxicating, unexpected. Arousing.
She turned back to him, lifted the hem of his T-shirt. The same enticing strip of abdomen he’d flashed yesterday peeked out at her—thin skin, hard muscles, the elastic of his underwear, the shocking thrill that went through her at the sight of his belt holding his jeans up. She brushed her thumb back and forth over his hip bone and watched the muscle shudder. Jump.
She glanced at the clock on the stove. She had an hour before she had to be at work. God only knew if this would happen again, so she was going to make the most of it. She put her left hand on his other hip bone, then skated her hands up his torso, gathering his shirt as she went up and over his head. Letting the T-shirt drop to the floor, she set her hands on his shoulders, roped with muscle. He looked far leaner in his clothes, deceptively so. Serious strength resided in this body, skin over muscle, tattooed at the shoulder. A set of triangles shaped into a swirl, another one just above his right hip bone, in ornate letters, that led her fingertips to the trail of hair arrowing into his jeans.