Page 97 of Forgotten Comeback

He growls, jerking my face inches from his.

I giggle, delirious from the high. “It was out-of-this-world amazing, and you damn well know it.”

He smiles, pressing his lips to mine. It’s sweet, and that throws me for a loop. Maybe I’ve misjudged this man.

Except for the psychopath part, he’s still that.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says against my lips.

“Am I now?”

“Mmm. Do you need to stop at the condo and pick up your meds? What about Bonnie?”

I pull back, snapping out of my postcoital haze. “Is this where you take me home, give me forehead kisses, and then ghost me the next day?”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Fuckboy 101,” I inform him.

“Taylor?”

“Yes?”

“Stop running your mouth.” He nips at my lower lip, the sting of pain making me yelp. “Do you need to stop at the condo?”

“No,” I say on a resigned sigh. “I’ve got my meds, and Bonnie will be okay for the night.” I raise off his dick, and he groans at the sight of his cum leaking down my thigh.

The only problem with getting myself stabilized is that I don’t have mania to blame for my questionable choices, like letting Gavin go bare, for example.

“Don’t regret what we just did, because we’re about to do a hell of a lot more of it,” he informs me.

“You are the cockiest man I’ve ever met.” My fingers wrap around the head of his semi and use it to clean up some of this mess on my thigh.

“Keep doing that, and we won’t make it out of the parking lot,” Gavin says between his teeth.

Ignoring the way his dick becomes heavy in my hand, I release him and eye the console. There’s no graceful way to scramble over it, and I’m wondering how I got over here to begin with.

Gavin Webb is like a dog whistle to my ovaries, that’s how.

“You’re going for a second ride if you don’t move soon,” he says, gripping my hips.

“I’m moving,” I mutter, crawling over the console in what feels like the most awkward way humanly possible.

My ass gets another swat, and I yelp, falling into my seat.

“Dickhead.”

Gavin laughs as he pulls up his boxers and jeans, getting himself situated before we pull out of the empty parking lot.

“How fast does this car go?”

He locks eyes with me. “Zero to sixty in 3.74 seconds.”

“Then why are you driving like a senior citizen?” I taunt him.

Challenge in his eyes, he revs the engine at a red light. It turns green, and he mashes the accelerator, and I squeal with excitement as I’m pinned to the back of my seat. We careen down the empty streets of AC, the neon lights a blur.

A little voice reminds me that what goes up must come down, but I’m going to enjoy the highs and worry about the lows another day.