“Relax,” he says low into my ear.
That only sets off more shivers in me, heading southward.
“Have you never danced with a man before?”
“Um…” I bite my lip. “Sure I have. But not like this.” Not with a man like you, a man who can switch my body on with a single look…a single touch.
He raises a brow. “Not like this?”
“Yeah, you know, the proper kind of dancing. When I dance with a man, I’m usually drunk, and I’m, um…” Shit, how do I finish that sentence? That I’m on the pull, dancing with the guy I’m planning on taking home to have sex with—on the rare occasions when that does happen?
His hand tightens around mine, and I watch as his mouth forms the words hanging in my mind, “When you’re on the pull.”
Heat engulfs my face, so I turn away. “Something like that.”
He leans in, so his lips are next to my ear, grazing it, as he speaks, “Just so you know, the dancing I want to do with you most fucking definitely isn’t proper.”
Holy fucking what?
My eyes flash back to his, but his blues give nothing away.
Before I get a chance to speak, he says, “How many boyfriends have you had?”
My head jerks back in surprise. “Um, what?”
“I asked how many boyfriends you’ve had.”
“And why exactly are you asking that?”
“You know what that did?”
“Yeah, it killed the cat—and satisfaction brought it back, so I’ll take my chances. How many boyfriends, Andressa?”
Smiling at his quip, I loosen up and decide to answer. “A few. Nothing serious.”
“A few? I thought you’d have them lining up.”
I give him a look. “Shockingly, no. Not all men want to date a grease monkey.”
“Grease monkey?” He barks out a laugh. “Jesus, you’re far from that. And you’re wrong about men not wanting a hot-as-fuck woman who works under the hood. Trust me. There’s nothing sexier.”
“When was your last relationship?”
His question momentarily throws me. I’m still stuck in my hot-as-fuck daze.
But his persistent intrusion into my personal life brings a frown to my face. “Jesus, Carrick, what is this? Question time?”
“It’s called getting to know you.”
“You already know me.”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Do you need to know everything?”
His eyes darken…deepening like an endless chasm, which I could easily fall into.
“About you? Yes.”
My heart skips a good ten beats before restarting back up.
Swallowing, I try to catch the breath he just stole. “Well, there are better things to learn about me than my dating history,” I mumble.
“I’m fully aware of that, but just humor me.”
“Fine…” I huff. “My last boyfriend was, um…” Marcelo, but can that really be classified as a relationship? We only dated for two months, and I was on the road with the team for a good portion of that. “About two years ago,” I finish with.
“You haven’t been with a guy in two years?”
I can’t tell if he’s shocked or appalled. Maybe both. It makes me feel uneasy and embarrassed.
“No. I said I haven’t been in a relationship in two years, not that I haven’t been with anyone.”
That’s actually been…shit. Okay, it’s not far off from two years—about eighteen months. What the hell have I been doing? No wonder I’m as hot for him as I am. I’ve been depriving my body of sex for way too long.
“I’ve been busy.” I sound defensive, but I can’t help it. “And there’s not a lot of time for dating when you work in racing, if you haven’t noticed.” Not that it stops him, but then he doesn’t exactly date.
“What was his name?”
“The guy you dated two years ago.”
“Sounds like a ponce.”
Laughter escapes me, shaking my shoulders. “He was all right. What about you?”
“Me? I’ve never had a boyfriend, especially not one with a poncy fucking name like Marcelo,” he deadpans.
I playfully swat his shoulder. “You know what I meant. Girlfriend. Spill.”
I feel a sharp stab of jealousy. If he’d said ten, I’d have felt better. But one girl means that she had his heart. Maybe she broke it, and that’s why he’s the player he is today.
I focus my stare over his shoulder, like something’s caught my attention, so he can’t see what I know is readable in my eyes. “How long were you together?”
“A day?” I say, aghast. I look back to him, my eyes wide with shock. All trace of my jealousy is gone.
“Yeah…” He lets out a wistful sigh, which punches me straight in the chest. “Her name was Payton Ahearn. Totally loved her, and she dumped me for fucking Tommy O’Connor, all because he got her a necklace. I never did get over it. She ruined me for all other women.”
My face creases in confusion.
“I was six.” He grins.
“You’re an idiot.” I giggle. I actually fucking giggle. What the hell is wrong with me?