Even through my stubbornness, I could concede her point on my being unfair, and a big part of me knew she was trying to help. But I wasn’t missing out on a chance to drive this baby, and she owed me one.
“G-get in.” I don’t know if it was my fixed expression of impatience or my steely tone, but she didn’t argue. She climbed in as I was adjusting the seat and easing back into the best-smelling leather I’d ever sat my ass on.
I stroked the steering wheel, flexing my fingers and taking hold of it as gently as I had Tasha’s neck during our first kiss.
Our fake kiss.
Inhaling a lungful of new-car smell, I flipped through her preset radio stations. Pop. Pop. Country. Jazz? No way. I punched another button. Ahh, there we go. Rock. I cranked the song—by the Black Keys—as Tasha buckled her seatbelt and stroked the nylon crossing her breasts.
Retesting her theory, this time on my terms, I leaned over and touched my lips to hers. After a gentle kiss that made me want more, I said, “Let me show you what this baby can do.”
Chapter Nine
Tasha
Wow.
My lips still hummed from the kiss Cade had stamped onto my lips a moment ago. He hadn’t stuttered. Was it bad that I’d noticed? I couldn’t help it. I was trying to help him “fix” his mouth, tongue, and lips. Though now I wasn’t thinking of fixing him. I was thinking of how good he’d tasted.
Focus.
So. What did I learn? His nurse Moira was half right, but I was also half right.
Cade’s tongue was tense. He needed the oral exercises I suggested—needed to physically limber up so he could speak clearly. But he was anxious as well, and that underlying, dormant anxiety was causing him to doubt himself. Apparently, he needed mental and physical therapy.
Not bad for a student who was not a speech therapist, I thought smugly as he pressed the gas pedal on my Z4 and zoomed us away from the museum.
The moment he let his frustration take over, he lost control over his tongue and he was back to stuttering. But after our incredible kiss, one that shut my brain down and turbo-charged my erogenous zones, he’d spoken perfectly.
I was so proud I could have kissed him.
Again.
Cade had adjusted the driver’s seat to accommodate his longer legs. He was both tall and broad, making my powerful Z4 delicate by comparison. He gripped the steering wheel and I admired his hands. Blunt, squared fingertips. Nice knuckles. I’d never really admired a guy’s hands before, but he had really nice ones. His biceps flexed, causing the tattoos on his arms to flinch when he punched the button to put down the driver’s side window.
This car was ridiculously expensive. I’d looked it up online and learned that my father had purchased a sixty-thousand-dollar vehicle for me. Actually, with the additional satellite radio and voice-command function, it was probably closer to seventy. He liked to give me nice gifts, sure, but a paranoid part of me had worried at first that he was trying to control me by buying me nice things. Though it didn’t seem so paranoid after he’d threatened to stop paying for the car if I continued seeing Cade. What would Daddy say if he saw Cade driving me around in it, I thought with an evil smirk. It wasn’t like me to be rebellious, but damn, it felt good.
He gunned the engine, roaring down the highway and slipping around other cars smoothly. My back was pressed to the seat, my heart thundering, my limbs shaking. I hadn’t found speeding sexy, but with Cade behind the wheel, all I could think of was how well he handled my car and if those very nice hands would feel equally nice on my body.
If the way he’d moved his tongue along mine had been any indication, I’d bet he could work the rest of his fantastic body just as skillfully. I hummed in the back of my throat as I pictured him doing wicked, wonderful things to me. Good thing the radio was cranked, or else he might have heard.
I liked sex, but it wasn’t like me to need sex. The closeness was my favorite part, or at least it was before I learned that Tony had been “close” with other women while we dated. In hindsight, I recalled how he’d been focusing on himself more than me during. He’d mostly admired his own body. Flexing his biceps, showing off washboard abs. And while I could admit that every inch of his brown skin was achingly attractive, learning he was a cheating bastard made him ugly on the inside.
Cade was different.
But he didn’t used to be, I argued as I studied his healing knuckles. He used to be a cocky jerk out to grab a cheap thrill. He used to be like Tony.
But now he wasn’t. He had…is grown the right word? That accident had shaken more than his confidence. It also might be responsible for his attitude. Which, even though he could be recalcitrant or bossy, was still an improvement on before.
“Badass,” I heard him say over the next song—this one by Disturbed.
I tried not to appear excited by his speaking clearly. I didn’t want to upset him again. I wondered if the lingering effect from our kiss was responsible for untangling his tongue. Or maybe it was him driving this car the way it was meant to be driven.
He was in his element behind the wheel, as if he’d driven my car a thousand times before. He was comfortable in control.
Control.
I stared unseeing out the windshield as a puzzle piece slid into place. Control. That was it. When Cade felt in control, he spoke clearly. Granted, we’d still need to do mouth exercises, but if I let him run the show, I bet he’d be back to himself in no time.
Our drive was over way too fast. Even he looked disappointed when he pulled into his driveway and shut off the car. He stroked the steering wheel almost sensually and I wished he would touch me again.
Purr.
I wanted more of his mouth. I wanted to explore the tension humming between us. Which made our relationship a hell of a lot more complicated than before.
“Done?” he asked.
I blinked out of the fantasy forming in my ribald imagination. I was sad to see it go. If he was asking if I was done with him, the answer was easy: not even close.
“With our session?” I asked. “We didn’t do anything.”
“We did ssssomething.” He pressed his lips together, his eyelids closing in frustration.
That elongated S didn’t put a damper on my attraction to him. I touched one of his hands strangling the steering wheel. The muscles in his arms bunched as he glared out the windshield. He was too hard on himself.
“Your stammer doesn’t bother me,” I told him. “I’d rather you talk to me than not.”
“Y-you like me w-weak.” He jerked his hand out from under mine and got out of the car. The entire vehicle shook when he slammed the door.
Lassoing my temper, I got out too. He punched in the code and the garage door rattled to the top.
“Are you implying I enjoy watching you struggle?” I called out on my approach.
“Yes,” he said, his teeth bared like a wild animal.
“Well, I don’t.” I was his friend—didn’t he know that? He should. It was me who’d stuck around and waited for the ambulance with him. Everyone else—all his other street racing “friends” had scattered. I’d refused to leave him crumpled over his steering wheel, bloody and hurt.
“You have no idea what I enjoy,” I bit out.