Something I didn’t understand.
I looked away before I could stop myself and then felt instantly annoyed. As if I’d retreated somehow, which was a mistake when dealing with a guy like him.
Get it together, Little. You shouldn’t be playing games anyway.
I definitely shouldn’t, not that I was a game player anyway. But there was a reason I’d managed to manoeuvre my way into driving for him and it wasn’t because he’d turned out to be hot shit on a stick.
I had a mission and I had to keep that in mind.
Determined not to look again, I started the limo and pulled away from the kerb, concentrating squarely on driving and not on the man behind me.
Except I found the low rumble of his voice distracting. There was a velvety texture to it, a kind of huskiness that made me feel shivery.
The engines of the Pythons sounded like that. A deep purr, like a giant cat. I loved the sound of those engines, loved those cars, sleek and dangerous and powerful.
Taking one of them for a spin around the track was a huge rush, an adrenaline hit I’d craved right from the first moment I’d sat behind the wheel and the engine had turned over, throbbing like a giant heartbeat.
The rush of speed had been the perfect way to deal with all the messy teenage emotions I hadn’t known how to handle, the emotions that Dad hadn’t known how to handle either, and so I’d taken to the track to drive whenever I was feeling upset or needing an emotional release.
Speed was better than crying and there was nothing like hitting the gas hard and throwing a powerful car around a few corners.
Ever since then, the revving purr of a V8 engine had made me feel good. Made me feel reckless and powerful. And listening to Mr Evans talk, his voice thrumming through me like one of those engines, a deep vibrating rumble that I could feel in my chest and lower, in my sex, made me feel that same way.
What would it be like to drive him?
What a stupid thought. He wasn’t a car. He was a man and probably wouldn’t appreciate being driven anywhere.
Yet try as I might to concentrate on the road ahead of me, the thought wouldn’t go away.
He was muscular and powerful, just like one of the Pythons. Would he take me on a wild ride if I put my hand on him? He probably wouldn’t be as easy to drive, but he’d certainly be as hot. And he’d be hard, too, and the rumble of his engine...
There was a throb between my legs, a hot, raw feeling that I wasn’t sure how to handle. I’d never felt this before, not for anyone, not even for my one lone high-school boyfriend.
Still think it’s static?
Okay, no. It wasn’t static. It was attraction. But that didn’t make things any easier, because I still didn’t know what to do about it.
Sex is what people usually do about it.
I glared out of the front windscreen as I manoeuvred the giant car through the narrow Parisian streets.
Sex was not happening. I’d had it a couple of times with that one single boyfriend and it had been nice but forgettable. Certainly not worth trying it with Mr Evans, even if he had been interested, which I was sure he wasn’t. Not given the woman he was with now.
Anyway, he was clearly a man who was used to being in charge and, after Mark and his handsy ways, I wasn’t keen on letting any guy take charge of me.
Apart from anything else, I was supposed to be asking him for more time on the Australis investment, not...anything else.
The lights were red at the intersection ahead of me so I stopped, irritatingly conscious of Mr Evans’s voice rumbling again, followed by more feminine laughter and then a soft gasp.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
I wasn’t going to look. I wasn’t curious. I didn’t need to see what was happening behind me.
Of course I looked.
And the way the rear-view mirror was positioned gave me the perfect view of one of his large hands cupping her breast over the fabric of her dress, his thumb moving lazily back and forth over her nipple.
I blinked, a weird flashback hitting me. Of how Mark had grabbed me from behind, squeezing me and pinching me, and how it had hurt. He’d been rough and I’d been taken by surprise, unable to jerk away until it was too late.
Yet the woman didn’t seem to find what Mr Evans was doing to her unpleasant. She was arching into his hand as if wanting more. And...it seemed as if he was holding her carefully, his thumb moving gently, lightly...
Unexpectedly, my own nipples hardened, pressing against the cotton of my bra, and I had to jerk my gaze away, my face flaming.
Bloody hell, what was I thinking? Staring at my clients wasn’t at all professional. And as for getting turned on by it...
No. Just no.
The light changed colour and I put my foot on the accelerator, determined to ignore what I’d just seen.
But Mr Evans made another of those deep, purring sounds and it shivered through me, making my mouth go dry and the throb in my sex even more intense.
Was it the blonde making him sound like that? And why? What was she doing?
Madness. I shouldn’t even want to look again, let alone be battling the sudden and intense desire to do just that.
Another set of lights was up ahead, turning red as soon as I approached.
I wasn’t going to look. I wasn’t.
But I couldn’t help myself. I did.
His hand had moved to her butt, curving around it possessively, while hers had shifted from his chest and down between his powerful thighs, her fingers spread as she cupped him through his jeans, her red nails standing out against the blue denim.
I swallowed, trying vainly to get some moisture into my bone-dry mouth.
Her fingers were lazily stroking up and down, tracing the outline of something very long and very thick, and his thighs were spread wide, giving her room, as if he was enjoying very much what she was doing to him.
A hungry feeling pulsed inside me, my palms sweaty as I gripped the steering wheel.
This time I couldn’t drag my gaze away. I was glued to the view in the mirror, mesmerised and not even sure why.
There was something hypnotic about the way her fingers moved on him, about the shape of his cock beneath the denim, that caught my attention, twisting my curiosity tight and refusing to let go.
What did he feel like? Was he hot? Was he as hard as he looked? Would he make that soft bass rumble for me if I touched him?
Need throbbed between my thighs, my hands itching to touch.
I loved driving, and chauffeuring satisfied that need in me, but I also loved design. There was nothing that gave me as much pleasure as the clean lines and curves of a beautifully designed car, form and function perfectly melded.
I wanted to see Mr Evans’s form. I wanted to see the lines and curves of him, and whether he’d be as beautifully designed for power and strength as he seemed to be. I already knew his torso was a work of art, but what about the rest of him?
My heartbeat accelerated like one of the Pythons, revving hard.
The mirror didn’t show his face and suddenly I wanted to see it. Wanted to know what his scarred features looked like when he was turned on and whether those intense