Notes From the Backseat by Jody Gehrman Page A

dissolved like sugar in hot coffee.
    â€œNot really,” I mumbled, barely able to get the words out before he kissed me again.
    â€œI know you’re high maintenance,” he teased as he kissed my neck slowly. I couldn’t help sighing in decadent pleasure. His thumb moved over my nipple and I have to say at the moment it was perky enough to rival even Boob-Job-Blonde’s. “You need constant supervision.” He was speaking in that bad-daddy tone that undoes me.
    Abruptly, he pulled back and searched my face like it contained an elusive code he intended to crack. “Really though, Gwen, are you okay? You seem a little…uneasy.”
    Reluctant to come back to earth, I closed my eyes again and whispered, “At the moment, I’m perfectly at ease.” I tilted my face toward him, offering my lips to be kissed.
    Still, he hesitated. “You sure wrote a lot today. What was that all about?”
    â€œJust—you know—recording my thoughts.”
    â€œYou’re not mad or anything?”
    â€œNot right now.” I was being straight with him; it’s amazing how a rush of blood to the erogenous zones can completely negate even the powerful force of psychotic jealousy. Hormonal distraction never lasts, but what the hell? I’ll take my delusions where I can get them.
    Evidently, Coop agreed, because he bent down and kissed me with his whole mouth, probing my teeth with his tongue. When the kiss ended, he leaned in to the curve of my neck and sunk his teeth into the sensitive spot right above my clavicle. He knows that makes me totally insane. I squirmed against him, stifling a squeal.
    He looked up at me through his lashes with a sly, wolfish grin. “It’s been too long.”
    I laughed. “You’re telling me. When was the last time? Tuesday?”
    He pressed against me until I was flat on my back on the couch. “You wicked girl,” he said. “You’ve been intentionally driving me wild with those little outfits of yours.”
    â€œWhat ‘little outfits?’” I pretended to be indignant.
    â€œYour adorable travel suit and now—” he ran a finger along the crease of my cleavage, letting it trail under the plunging neckline of my nightgown “—this little number.”
    Duly noted: travel ensembles a smashing success!
    He slipped one hand under the elastic of my underwear and explored the warm, fleshy wetness of—
    God, do you really want all these details? Actually, I know you, and the answer is a gleaming-eyed, greedy little yes. I can just see you sitting in your trés chic Parisian café, devouring this notebook like it’s one of your coffee-stained, dog-eared bodice-rippers with a horribly seventies-esque Fabio flexing on the cover. Just don’t expect any throbbing members or secret clefts of womanhood, here. It’s all anatomically accurate in my world.
    â€œFor your information,” I told him, trying not to cry out as his finger pushed easily inside me. “I am a fashion professional and I choose my clothing not to drive men wild, but to revive the aesthetic impulses of a bygone er—” But I couldn’t finish my sentence. He was spreading my thighs and the warm, damp curve of his tongue against my flesh made it impossible to conjugate verbs.
    I closed my eyes. Colors streaked around in a psychedelic light show under my eyelids. Surrendering to Coop’s mouth is like Venice tiramisu, a bottle of Mumm de Cramant, and the first morning of summer vacation, all rolled into one. As his tongue worked its magic, I eased my fingers into the dark nest of his hair and pulled gently, murmuring, “Oh God, Coop,” under my breath.
    Just as I was starting to pant and sweat, he slid his tongue up the center of my belly, over my navel, between my breasts, pushing my nightgown aside and kissing me hard on the mouth. I could taste myself on his lips and in the hot wetness of