Asking for More Page 11

  He drew back, his gray eyes narrowing, almost like I'd slapped him. Had he taken my fear as an insult? Maybe it was one; I'd as good as said I thought he couldn't be trusted. However, when he spoke again, his deep voice was gentler. Meant to soothe. "I wasn't thinking. Here. Let me take care of this for you and get you on your way."

  He held out his hand for the wrench. Obviously he'd need it to change my flat. But it was also the only potential weapon I had.

  Do I trust this guy?

  I took one step closer to him, squinting to see. Now his body blocked the headlights a little more, and I could examine his face more carefully. Strong brow. Firm, straight nose like a slash through his perfectly symmetrical face. A surprisingly full lower lip. He looked powerfully, almost aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted. And yet his eyes never glanced away from mine, as though he had nothing to hide--

  Even though I wanted to trust those eyes, I couldn't. This man was a total stranger. What it boiled down to was this: If he was a good guy, then I could rely on him. If he was a bad guy, he could probably get the lug wrench away from me any time he wanted.

  I hesitated one instant longer, then handed him the wrench.

  He took it and stepped past me to get to work.

  During the next few minutes, while he worked in silence except for the clanking of metal, I stood awkwardly in front of his dark sedan. Even now I found it difficult to relax around this guy. What if he was just toying with me? Trying to get me off my guard?

  Oh, come on, I told myself. Like any rapist on earth would go to the trouble of changing a flat tire first.

  But those fears weren't the main reason I found it hard to relax. What got to me was that I found my rescuer sexy as hell. And he'd been sexy to me even when I'd been scared of him.

  Just what did you think he was going to do to you?

  What did you want him to do to you?

  As I watched him--his strong arms wrestling with the wheel, the headlights shining on the muscular expanse of his back or his stern profile--my mind filled with visions I didn't want to want. Visions of him bending me over the back of my car, pushing up the skirt of my sundress. Of him pulling me into the backseat, putting my hand on his cock, whispering, Time to thank me. His hands fisting in my hair as he towed me down on my knees--

  Stop it.

  I shook my head, pushing the loose strands of my hair back from my face. My cheeks felt hot. My pulse still raced, thumping in my chest, throbbing between my legs. I was turned on and confused and angry with myself. I wanted him to finish changing my flat so I could get back into my car and drive the rest of the way home, pretending I'd never had a bigger problem than crappy music on the radio.

  Then I could also pretend he hadn't made me feel so hungry. So ashamed.

  "Okay," he said. A few clicks of the jack, and my car settled back onto the ground. When he stood up, he had a smudge of dark grease along one cheekbone. "That should get you home. But it's just a spare. You need to buy a new tire right away instead of driving around on this one for too long."

  "I know that," I retorted, stung.

  "Sorry." His smile was knowing, almost disdainful. "I forgot I was talking to an expert."

  Okay, so he's a smug son of a bitch, but he's the son of a bitch who just saved your ass. I swallowed my irritation. "Listen--thanks. Seriously. I don't know what I would've done without you. I owe you one."

  His smile faded. "Then do me a favor. Don't try to be superwoman next time. Join Triple A, stay in the car and keep it locked, whatever you have to do to keep yourself safe." He handed me back the wrench. "You should be more careful who you trust."

  His eyes searched mine again, and I hoped my face was in shadow--enough that he couldn't see how flushed I was. Then he turned and walked back to his sedan.

  As his door slammed, I went to the driver's side of my Civic, legs trembling beneath me. I got back in and hit the locks. His car pulled back onto the highway, passed me, and kept on going. I sat still, watching the taillights shrink and pass out of sight as he drove away.

  I needed to keep driving. But for a few moments I just sat there, one hand to my lips, and tried to stop shaking.

  That's not what I wanted. It's not.

  If only I could believe that.

  Lilah Pace is a pseudonym for a New York Times bestselling author. She is the author of Begging for It and Asking for It.

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  Lilah Pace, Asking for More

  (Series: Asking for It # 2.50)

 

 

 

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