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Wallbanger(87)

By:Alice Clayton


Knowing I was a grin and a clench away from total embarrassment, I stood quickly and went to dump my coffee in the sink. I paused there for a

second, only a second, thoughts whirling. He was single. He was…single. Sweet mother of pearl, Wal banger was single.

I felt him move across the kitchen and come to stand behind me. I froze, feeling his hands gently brush my hair away from my shoulders and

slip down to my hips. His mouth—his ever-loving mouth—barely touched the shel of my ear, and he whispered.

“Truth? I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Stil facing away from him, my mouth dropped open and my eyes went wide, torn between fist pumping and actual kitchen sex. Before I could

decide, his mouth moved more purposeful y, pressing into the skin just below my ear and making my brain burn and parts below dance a jig.

His hands gripped my hips, and he turned me toward him—to face that body and grin—I quickly composed my face, trying desperately to keep

it together.

“Truth? I’ve been thinking about you since the night you banged on my door,” he whispered, bending down to kiss the hol ow of my neck with

breathtaking precision. His hair tickled my nose, and I fought to keep my hands to myself. He pushed me to the side a little and surprised me by

lifting me onto the counter. My legs automatical y opened to al ow him between them, the Universal Law of Wal banger superseding any actual

thought I had in my head. Not to worry, my thighs knew what to do.

One of his hands snuck around to the smal of my back, while the other gripped the back of my neck. “Truth?” he asked one more time, pul ing

my hips to the edge of the counter, which forced me to lean back as my legs once more went on auto-pilot and wrapped themselves around his

waist. “I want you in Spain,” he breathed, then brought his mouth to mine.

Somewhere, a kitty began to cal …and an O final y began her journey home.

“More wine, Mr. Parker?”

“No more for me. Caroline?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” I stretched out luxuriously in my seat. First class to LaGuardia, then first class al the way to Malaga, Spain. We’d be taking

a car from there to Nerja, the smal coastal town where Simon had rented a house. Scuba diving, spelunking, hiking, beautiful beaches, and

mountains, al set in a quaint vil age.

Simon squirmed in his seat and shot an angry look over his shoulder.

“What? What’s the problem?” I asked, looking behind and seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

“That kid keeps banging my seat,” he grumbled through clenched teeth.

I laughed for a solid twenty minutes.





Chapter Sixteen


“WE DID IT TOO SOON. We should have waited.”

“We waited long enough—are you kidding? You know I was right. It was time to do it.”

“Time to do it, what a crock! We could have waited just a little longer, and then we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in now.”

“Wel , I didn’t hear you complaining at the time. You seemed pretty pleased, as I recal .”

“I couldn’t complain, my mouth was ful . But I had a feeling. I just knew this was wrong, what we were doing was inherently wrong.”

“Okay, I give up. You tel me how to fix this.”

“Wel , for starters, you’re holding it upside down,” I shot back, grabbing the map and turning it right side up. We’d been parked along the side

of the road for five minutes, trying to figure out how to get to Nerja.

After landing in Malaga, navigating customs, navigating the rental car system, and final y navigating our way successful y away from the city

center, we were now lost. Simon drove, so I was in charge of the map. And by that I mean he took it away from me every ten minutes or so, looked it

over, hmm-ed and hawed, and then thrust it back my way. He didn’t actual y listen to anything I had to say, instead relying on his innate man-map.

He also refused to turn on the GPS that had been provided for us, determined to get us there the old-fashioned way.

Which is why we were now lost. Taking a train would have been too easy. Simon needed a car to get around for his photos, which was

ultimately why we were here. After flying through the night, we were both exhausted, but the best way to fight jet lag, al egedly, was to get on local

time as quickly as possible. We had both agreed not to nap until we could go to sleep that night.

Now we argued about where we took the wrong turn. I’d been devouring some churros from a roadside stand when the wrong turn supposedly

took place, and so we played “Place the Blame.”

“Al I’m saying is that if someone hadn’t been stuffing her face and was watching for the turn, we wouldn’t be—”