Shuddering at the wanton need that speared her body, Willow closed her eyes. “Yes, please.”
Ben chuckled softly at the soft demand. He released her breast, only to tunnel his hand under the edge of her sweater to sweep up her ribcage. When he encountered her bra, he only nudged it up so he could lay claim to the silky smooth mound.
“Look at you,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb over the sensitive bud.
Then his lips came down to lave her bared breast, his tongue liquid heat as he licked her nipple with lazy strokes. His mouth opened, suckling her in, and her eyes nearly rolled right into the back of her head. The muscles in her tummy and legs squeezed against the onslaught of sensations. Each tug of his lips, every lick of his rough tongue seemed to wring an answering surge of wetness and unbelievable ache from between her thighs.
“And so damn responsive.” Ben seemed in awe.
“Ben.” His name fell from her lips in a husky whisper as he turned to pay homage to her neglected breast, but before the exquisite contact was made he switched gears and yanked her bra and sweater down, lifting and then depositing her neatly in the passenger seat.
To say she was confused was an understatement. She blinked owlishly about the cab, wondering what the heck happened. It was then she noticed the thick fog on all the windows, cocooning them in a world of their own, and a temporary one at that, as a loud rap on the driver side window testified.
Her “oh, crap,” was drowned out by Ben’s snarled, “Just a minute.”
Alarmed, she checked her clothes and jammed a trembling hand through her hair.
She looked up when Ben clasped her free hand, his fingers tangling in hers. “You okay?” His eyes, reverted fully back to bronze fire, narrowed in concern.
Was she okay? Her face flamed and she turned away. She’d just behaved in an absolutely unorthodox fashion, groping and fondling and, well, practically having sex in a truck! In a place where anyone could see or even come upon them at any second, which, based on that window knock, they had. And if that someone, no doubt Rome, had approached only minutes later—
Her cheeks grew hotter at the thought. “Maybe in a year or two.”
Eyes solemn, he curved a hand under her chin. “I like you, Will, and I want to be with you. I want to make love with you.”
Wow. Guess Ben had no qualms about putting it all right out in the open. Too bad Willow didn’t have quite the nerve. “I like you too.”
Looking as if he were biting back a smile he asked, “Yeah?”
Who could help not liking him? Certainly not this female. “Yeah.”
Approving her response, he laid a hard, closed-mouth kiss on her lips. “Good. I’ll pick you up tomorrow around five and we’ll head over to Vince’s restaurant for dinner. Sound good?”
It took Willow a few moments to remember why he was picking her up. The man had a way of scrambling her brains.
Swimming.
She nodded, Rome banged on the window again and, yanking her coat out from under her, said, “Sounds good. Thanks for driving me back.”
“Believe me.” Ben’s Cheshire cat grin was hard to miss. “It was my pleasure.”
Chapter Thirteen
With her swimsuit, towel, and a pair of shorts tucked in a small bag on the bed, Willow moved back to the closet, opened it, frowned at the five items dangling from plastic hangers—yep, nothing else had magically shown up in the past twenty seconds—and closed the hinged door and paced to the dresser.
She frowned at her reflection. What was she thinking? It wasn’t as if she had a huge wardrobe to choose from. Everything she’d owned she’d brought, and it hadn’t amounted to much. Not to mention most of what she did have was suited to an Arizona climate, not a mountainous Colorado one, and other than a pretty sundress or the beautiful blue dress Tess bought for her, neither an appropriate choice for tonight, she was stuck in what she wore.
But it wasn’t like they were going on a date.
Ben was simply taking her to Vince DeNoza’s restaurant. She didn’t remember the name of the place, but did recall the flirty older gentleman at Kaylie’s house from the night she and Rome arrived in Woodcliff.
Then they were going swimming. At a school. Not the most romantic of dates.
“It’s not a date.” The mirror showed a face scrunched up with worry and she stuck a tongue out at it. “Jeans, sweater, boots, move on. No more thinking or wishing about it.”
Nevertheless, she did check her lip gloss, foregoing any other makeup because, hello, swimming. Nothing sexy about makeup smearing down one’s face and leaving a gross film all over the pool. Then she fluffed bangs long past needing a trim and yearned for the time it had been long enough to pull back in a knot, or braid, or ponytail. Or anything. The thin strands just hung there, straight as an arrow. At least all the bland, brown temporary color had washed out, leaving her strawberry blond locks free to shimmer in the sun.