Alison Kent - Fast, Furious and Forbidden

“I’d say that’s a distinct possibility.” Coy was gone, a come-on in its place. “Especially since I’m right here, and you’re still missing seeing me.”

He was pretty sure his definition of missing and hers of the same word were two different things. That didn’t mean she wasn’t right. That he wasn’t overlooking something vital.

He crossed his arms and widened his stance, furrowing his brow as he gave her an obvious once-over. “I’m seeing you now.”

Her tongue slicked quickly over her lips. “You’re too far away to see much of anything.”

There were less than three feet between them. He came closer, backing her into a waist-high storage locker. “Is this better?”

“You tell me,” she said.

He leaned in, flattened his palms on the stainless steel surface, one on either side of her hips, and hovered, her body heat rising, his breathing labored and giving him away. “Not as better as it needs to be.”

Her hesitation in replying wasn’t about uncertainty, or impropriety, but about making him sweat, making him wait, making him want and ache. He was doing all of those things, strangling on the tension that was thick in the trailer around them, and robbing him of his air.

Finally, she moved, her hands coming up, her palms pressing to his chest, her fingertips finding his nipples and rubbing circles where they dotted his shirt. He shuddered, and she tipped forward, nuzzling her nose to the hollow of his throat.

He closed his eyes, inhaled, caught the scent of her shampoo, of her sun-heated skin, of her perspiration that was sweet, a damp sheen. Keeping his hands to himself had seemed smart, but she made him too stupid to care about anything but taking up where seven years ago, they’d left off because they were too young to know better.

He held her upper arms, her shoulders, sliding his hands up her neck to cup her face, her cheeks, her jaw, sliding them down to her ribcage and over the sides of her breasts.

There was no sense in any of this, no reason, no rhyme. They hadn’t kept in touch since he’d pressed her into the wall with his body. They’d never talked about how close they’d come that night to tumbling into bed. He had no idea what had driven her here, and the climb of his temperature left him unable to figure it out, to do anything but feel.

She met his gaze, parted her lips, pushed up on her sneakered tiptoes to find his mouth. He bent to make it easy for her, but mostly he bent for himself. Her tongue slipped between his lips to tease and seduce and show him the years he’d missed out on.

He couldn’t let himself wonder about or regret any of that now because she was here, and he didn’t want to miss any of what was happening. Her hunger was that of a long separation, a desperation, neither which he understood or which fit.

What he did understand were her hands at his waist, tugging up his T-shirt, slipping beneath. Her fingers threaded into the hair on his belly, then through that on his chest. She toyed with his nipples, and drove him mad with wanting her.

He broke the kiss because he had to, and rested his mouth at the corner of hers to catch his breath, his control. Her lips parted. He felt the urgent beat of her heart all over. “Cardin, why are you here?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s been so long. I wasn’t sure. I need—”

“Yo! Whip! Where you at? You’ll never guess who I found holding a corndog in each hand.”

Sunshine was back, and Trey had no choice but to set Cardin away, his question unanswered, her reply incomplete. He looked down, trying to find something to clue him into the truth, seeing only the flush of her arousal.

His own strained obviously and would take time to calm. “We’ll finish this later.”

“Yo! Whip!”

“Be right there,” he called toward the still open door, smoothing down his shirt as Cardin checked that nothing was out of order. “You heard me, right?”

“That we’ll finish this later?” She nodded.

Good. But also…“And you’ll tell me then what you need?”

She didn’t answer. She brushed her mouth one last time against his before turning, snagging her sunglasses and hopping from the trailer to the ground.

Trey took another few seconds to gather himself, grabbed for the torque wrench and walked from the rig’s interior into the white-hot light of the sun.

He squinted, then shook his head at the irony of the interruption as he recognized Jeb Worth standing beside the four-wheeler with Sunshine. That settled one thing at least.

Cardin looking for her grandfather was not as far-fetched as Trey had thought. Whether or not finding Jeb was what had brought her to the Corley hauler was yet to be seen.

Trey had a feeling it was something a whole lot bigger—and with a whole lot more baggage—than that.

Sunday p.m.

CARDIN SERENITY WORTH had lived her entire life in Dahlia, Tennessee. She’d sold Dixie cups of lemonade and Girl Scout cookies and fund-raising candy, tchotchkes and Christmas paper to half the folks in town.

She’d been a member of the Dahlia High School Darlings, high-kicking her way across the football field during three years of half-time shows, and a member of the local FFA, raising rabbits to show at county fairs.

She’d worked at Headlights, her family’s ice house, since she was old enough to pay taxes and social security on her wages, but had earned her allowance busing tables and sweeping peanut hulls from the floor before that.

She was twenty-five years old, a hometown girl known to one and all, and well aware that two decades from now, she would still be thought of as her father Eddie’s shadow, her mother Delta’s princess, and her grandpa Jeb’s pride and joy.

It came with being a Worth, a family that was as much a local fixture as the Dahlia Speedway, the drag-racing track where in less than two weeks, the whole town would switch gears from this weekend’s NHRA race to Dahlia’s annual Moonshine Run.

The midnight race was the only event in which Jeb still entered the car he called “White Lightning”—a nod to the years of Prohibition when her great-grandpa Orin’s moonshine had kept the folks in three counties from feeling any pain, while keeping his own family out of the poor house.

Right now, however, the race still on everyone’s mind—Cardin’s included—had featured top fuel dragsters: long, narrow purpose-built race cars with thin front tires that tore in a straight line down a length of the quarter mile track in under five seconds and at over three hundred miles an hour.

The Farron Fuel Spring Nationals had wrapped up earlier in the day, and the entire Corley Motors crew—”Bad Dog” Butch Corley having taken top honors again this year—was chowing down and raising hell at two of Headlights’ tables not fifteen feet from where she stood scooping crushed ice into red plastic tumblers for cokes and sweet tea.

Except it wasn’t the whole team causing her mouth to go dry, her palms to grow damp, her nape to tingle from the heat. It was one member, one man.

The man sitting at the far corner of the second table, the garage door style wall behind him rolled open to the early evening breeze.

The man polishing off the last ear of corn from the platter the group had ordered to go with their burgers, hot wings and pitchers of beer.

The man she’d thrown herself at three days ago and kissed with unheard of abandon as if she were a woman in love.

Trey Davis was the crew chief for Corley Motors. He was also Cardin’s counterpart: a hometown Dahlia boy. Granted, he hadn’t stayed in Dahlia the way she had; though he still owned property here, he only managed to visit during the spring drag racing series.