“Slade?”

“Yeah?”

“We head back tomorrow.”

“Yep.”

“We’ll continue this, right?” I cross my fingers beneath the covers.

“If you want, yeah.” He pauses. “Just till you go.”

I want him now. Badly. “You have condoms?” My voice squeaks, as I’m nervous to initiate. But, after the stunt I pulled, I have to assume he’s waiting for me to reopen the door.

“Fuck yeah, I do.” Jumping out of bed, he rifles through his things, pulling out a pack. “Now, take off your clothes and spread your legs for me how I like.”

I quickly strip off my pajamas, doing as he said.

“That’s right. How I like it, Lauren.” He walks toward me like a predator, abs flexing with his steps.

I swallow hard, doing as he asked. My hands shake, but I’ve never been so wet before in all my life.

12

Slade

“Ugh, I hate listening to nineties grunge.” She clicks her tongue. “If I hear ‘Black Hole Sun’ one more time …” Her voice trails off.

I chuckle. She thinks she’s being coy as she shadily taps the volume on my phone, trying to lower it.

I glare as though I just caught her in the act, and she lifts her hands in mock surrender.

“I get it, okay?” Her leg bounces up and down. “Don’t need Mr. Built Like A House getting angry with me; that’s for sure.”

She tries to hold back a smile, and I laugh.

“Well, get used to the music. My car, my rules. And we’ve got another forty-five minutes of nineties grunge I plan on playing.”

“Great,” she replies sarcastically. Her arms angrily cross in front of her chest. “It’s not really your car though,” she mumbles under her breath.

“I’m the one who signed for the rental, so technically, it’s mine for now.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Vincent and Eve wanted to stop somewhere using the plane, so Lauren and I decided to drive our way back to Nevada. With the windows of the 4Runner down, her long hair blows behind her. I can faintly smell her, vanilla and citrus and something else I can’t name but drives me insane with want. She keeps trying to tame the silky gold strands with her hands, but it’s not working. I love ruffling her feathers. She’s even hotter when she’s angry or annoyed.

A red-and-yellow sign for fast food shows up ahead. With my stomach growling, I put on my blinker and move to the right lane to exit.

Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” begins when I pull into the drive-through. Ordering half the menu, we get our food and park.

The paper bag crinkles as I stick my hand inside, pulling everything out. “Your side salad and Diet Coke.”

She grudgingly takes it from my hands. I took the liberty of ordering her a chicken sandwich and two more burgers. I know she likes to eat well and clean, but once in a blue moon, enjoying food is all right, too.

I unwrap the foil. “Have some of my burger.” I take a bite and lift it toward her.