In the Groove by Pamela Britton Page A
Authors: Pamela Britton
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Contemporary, Contemporary Romance, Man-Woman Relationships, Love Stories, Sports & Recreation, motor sports, Automobile Racing Drivers
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softly.
She looked up. And there it was again: that surge of energy reminiscent of when he put the pedal to the metal. It was the same sense of exhilaration. The same wild sense of anticipation. The same need for... something.
"You do that," she said softly.
Screw it, he found himself thinking. Screw this. He wanted to kiss her and by God he would.
"Sarah," he said softly, blowing her name across her face, his lips getting closer, ever closer, the adrenaline building in him like it did when he neared a white flag.
"You're going to kiss me, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, so close now he could feel the heat radiating off her face, count the number of freckles on her nose (ten), see that she had a tiny scar just above her eyebrow.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
He was just a breath away when he said, "Actually, I think it's an excellent idea."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sarah felt the gentle touch of his breath and closed her eyes. And when he pressed those lips against her own, she almost moaned.
She wanted this, she wanted him to kiss her so passionately that she'd forget for a moment where she was, and who he was, and what had happened in the past.
Forget.
Yes.
His lips were cool, but his breath—that was hot, as was the way he made her body feel. The pressure increased, razor stubble sliding against her chin as he turned his head, changing the angle in such a way that it encouraged... her... to...
Yes, she inwardly sighed as she opened her mouth, his blazing hot tongue stroking against her own and, oh, how it excited her, made her burn and sizzle with anticipation. She arched into him.
He pulled back.
Pulled back?
"This is a bad idea," he said quickly, his hands firmly setting her away from him. "A really bad idea."
"What are you doing?" she asked. "Why'd you stop?"
"Because you're stoned and I'm in no position to be flirting with you."
"Stoned? I'm not stoned."
"Yes, you are," he contradicted. "I don't know what Doc gave you, but whatever it is, it's pretty potent stuff."
" I am not stoned."
"As a gravel pit," he said.
"Hah," she said with a flick of her head, turning away from him in outrage.
Only when she turned, she almost fell, and that's when the weird buzzing she'd been experiencing suddenly became more pronounced. But even more telling, the floor suddenly seemed to undulate, the black checkerboards seeming to wave like a living flag.
"I'm stoned," she admitted in shock, looking up at him, her body quickening at the sight of his masculine, handsome face.
Damn, but he was hot. And she was, too. Burning, actually, burning for him.
"Let me help you down," he said.
"No, thank you," she said primly. "I can walk."
"No, you can't," he quickly corrected.
And, darn it all, the moment she took a step her head did something weird. It sort of sagged, her neck muscles so weak she felt like she might fall. "Oh, man," she said, trying to clutch at something. Him. Her hands found him.
When she opened her eyes, she couldn't help the accusation that came pouring out of her. "What did you give me?"
" Me ? I didn't give you anything."
"Then Doc Brown must be a crackpot." And even her voice sounded funny, she noticed, like it came from far, far above her head.
"They always tell you not to handle heavy machinery when on painkillers."
Then she noticed the way it felt to be so close to him. Or rather, her body noticed because it instantly flared to life. "How about sexy race-car drivers?"
He froze.
She did, too—and then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Please tell me I didn't just say that aloud," she mumbled. "That was in my head, right?"
"Yup, in your head," he said, little laugh lines sprouting out from the side of his eyes, and from the side of his mouth, too, because he was smiling at her. That gorgeous, naughty-boy smile that made her pulse pound.
Or maybe that was the medication.
"I think I should probably lie down."
"With or without the sexy race-car driver?"
Her face suddenly lit up like
She looked up. And there it was again: that surge of energy reminiscent of when he put the pedal to the metal. It was the same sense of exhilaration. The same wild sense of anticipation. The same need for... something.
"You do that," she said softly.
Screw it, he found himself thinking. Screw this. He wanted to kiss her and by God he would.
"Sarah," he said softly, blowing her name across her face, his lips getting closer, ever closer, the adrenaline building in him like it did when he neared a white flag.
"You're going to kiss me, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, so close now he could feel the heat radiating off her face, count the number of freckles on her nose (ten), see that she had a tiny scar just above her eyebrow.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
He was just a breath away when he said, "Actually, I think it's an excellent idea."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sarah felt the gentle touch of his breath and closed her eyes. And when he pressed those lips against her own, she almost moaned.
She wanted this, she wanted him to kiss her so passionately that she'd forget for a moment where she was, and who he was, and what had happened in the past.
Forget.
Yes.
His lips were cool, but his breath—that was hot, as was the way he made her body feel. The pressure increased, razor stubble sliding against her chin as he turned his head, changing the angle in such a way that it encouraged... her... to...
Yes, she inwardly sighed as she opened her mouth, his blazing hot tongue stroking against her own and, oh, how it excited her, made her burn and sizzle with anticipation. She arched into him.
He pulled back.
Pulled back?
"This is a bad idea," he said quickly, his hands firmly setting her away from him. "A really bad idea."
"What are you doing?" she asked. "Why'd you stop?"
"Because you're stoned and I'm in no position to be flirting with you."
"Stoned? I'm not stoned."
"Yes, you are," he contradicted. "I don't know what Doc gave you, but whatever it is, it's pretty potent stuff."
" I am not stoned."
"As a gravel pit," he said.
"Hah," she said with a flick of her head, turning away from him in outrage.
Only when she turned, she almost fell, and that's when the weird buzzing she'd been experiencing suddenly became more pronounced. But even more telling, the floor suddenly seemed to undulate, the black checkerboards seeming to wave like a living flag.
"I'm stoned," she admitted in shock, looking up at him, her body quickening at the sight of his masculine, handsome face.
Damn, but he was hot. And she was, too. Burning, actually, burning for him.
"Let me help you down," he said.
"No, thank you," she said primly. "I can walk."
"No, you can't," he quickly corrected.
And, darn it all, the moment she took a step her head did something weird. It sort of sagged, her neck muscles so weak she felt like she might fall. "Oh, man," she said, trying to clutch at something. Him. Her hands found him.
When she opened her eyes, she couldn't help the accusation that came pouring out of her. "What did you give me?"
" Me ? I didn't give you anything."
"Then Doc Brown must be a crackpot." And even her voice sounded funny, she noticed, like it came from far, far above her head.
"They always tell you not to handle heavy machinery when on painkillers."
Then she noticed the way it felt to be so close to him. Or rather, her body noticed because it instantly flared to life. "How about sexy race-car drivers?"
He froze.
She did, too—and then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Please tell me I didn't just say that aloud," she mumbled. "That was in my head, right?"
"Yup, in your head," he said, little laugh lines sprouting out from the side of his eyes, and from the side of his mouth, too, because he was smiling at her. That gorgeous, naughty-boy smile that made her pulse pound.
Or maybe that was the medication.
"I think I should probably lie down."
"With or without the sexy race-car driver?"
Her face suddenly lit up like