He leaned over to haul her against him. “Say yes.” He nibbled at her lips, along her jawline. “Say yes, Jo.”
“So …” Her voice was breathy, as if she couldn’t get enough air in to make the words solid. “So we’d, what? Be going steady?”
He didn’t respond to that. He was too busy with a delicious spot just below the ear where several earrings decorated her lobe. The delicate skin seemed especially tender at the moment.
“Would you let me wear your varsity jacket?”
“They don’t give letter jackets to rodeo kids.” He licked a patch of skin, blew gently against it until she shivered. One hand rose up to cup her breast, the nipple peaking into his hand.
“I’m at a loss as to how to define us.”
“Us.” His other hand came up to massage the other breast. “Isn’t that worth leaving labels behind?”
She was silent, long enough that he wondered if his attention to her body had been a mistake. But then she whispered, “Yes.”
Triumph surged, and he knew if he didn’t get the truck on the road in the next ten seconds, they’d be in for a repeat performance. Only his body just wasn’t up for another round of truck sex, much as his hormones begged to differ. He slid back, pushing gently on her shoulders until she was a good foot away.
Her eyes, dreamy and half-closed, snapped open. “What?”
Trace buckled his belt and nodded at her. “Seat belt.”
She just stared at him, mouth open.
“I can’t drive without you buckled in.”
Jo’s mouth set in a serious line and she faced forward with a cute little huff. But she latched her seat belt and he started the drive home.
“If I hadn’t pulled back, I wouldn’t have stopped,” he said quietly. The only noise competing for sound was the tires rumbling over pavement. The night was clean, clear, and quiet.
“Who asked you to stop?” Jo’s arms crossed over her chest.
“I did.” He smiled a little and angled the truck toward the highway. “Next time I get inside you, I want a mattress. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
She smiled a little at that, and he let her ride in silence.
She was so worried about being pegged into the domestic role, so worried about being tied down. He had to approach things more cautiously from here on out. He’d managed to corner her into agreeing to the relationship … sort of. Into an “us,” which he wasn’t sure was quite the same thing. But he’d take it.
His gaze slid over the dashboard and across the clock. He calculated how much longer he wanted to spend away from Seth before heading home.
Seth.
Damn. In all their time together, he’d never mentioned his son. That hadn’t entered into the arrangement. He’d even liked that she hadn’t known, hadn’t heard gossip and been one of the women wondering what had happened to Seth’s mother. Now that he’d brought Jo into the “us” category, dragging her heels, it would be awkward to spring news of a son on her. Damn it.
His hands gripped the wheel. They’d play it by ear, that was all. Dating was all about getting to know each other. He’d ease that one in. Get her comfortable with the relationship and then casually mention it. That was reasonable, wasn’t it?
He’d walked himself into this mess—albeit unintentionally—now he had to walk himself back out of it.
Trace raised his legs toward the ceiling, keeping his feet flat. “Here goes the airplane!” To his son’s delight, he made the engine sound and jiggled him. Seth laughed and drooled a little, but it landed on Trace’s shirt rather than his face, so he let it pass.
“Looks like fun. Can I have a turn?”
Peyton lay down next to him, her feet going the opposite direction so her head was right next to his.
“Sorry, riders must be two feet or shorter and weigh less than twenty pounds.” Seth wriggled his body a little in a c’mon gesture and Trace obliged, swirling his legs in a circular motion while still keeping a firm grasp on his hands.
“So, gonna tell me who his mother is?”
“Nope.”
She shrugged, as much as his sister could while flat on her back. “Well, whoever it was, she must have been beautiful. Because this little cutie looks nothing like you.”
In fact, he looked quite a bit like his father, but Trace could take the jab. Peyton’s routine of asking once a week—give or take—hadn’t slowed down one bit. He figured she would give up asking after awhile. Emma had, and Emma was a pit bull with a bone when it came to that sort of thing. But if Emma was a pit bull, Peyton was a liger.