Free True Divide by Liora Blake Page B

the ankle up to the back of my knee. Likely triggered by the cold air wreaking havoc on my previously hot spring–limbered muscles, combined with pointing my toes so exaggeratedly. I groan and flex my foot, then try to make it stop by shaking out my leg as a dog might.
    Jake immediately looks concerned. “Jesus. Are you OK?”
    â€œLeg cramp,” I say, barely intelligible through my gritted teeth.
    His hand drops from the top of the door and Jake comes to stand in front of me, then grabs around my waist, shoving me onto the seat. I flop over to rest the side of my body against the back of the seat, my legs still hanging out the open door space, the tension steadily lessening as I swing my leg around a bit more.
    Before I flail enough to finish it off, Jake’s hands, the manly ones that haven’t seen a manicure, well, ever, land against my calf and begin a steady and, dear Lord, intensely deep massage. It ends the muscle spasm but also forces me to bite down on my lower lip, just to suppress the groaning that would come naturally if I allowed it. I stare at his hands, refusing to lift my gaze to his face or eyes, because if I do, that’s it. Those hands and any remotely zesty look on his face will obliterate what remains of the determination that I started the evening with.
    His hands and fingers feel too warm against my cooling skin, that friction only exaggerating every trace of our skin coming together. Finally, perhaps because I’ve closed my eyes and let my mouth drop open slightly, Jake slows his hands to trace down my calf, over my ankle, and then uses one hand to dust any remaining dirt or pebbles off the underside of my foot. Propping his foot up on the truck floorboard, he lays my outstretched leg against the top of his thigh and reaches down to grab my boot, tipping it over and shaking to make sure nothing remains inside.
    After he slips the boot back onto my foot, he shifts to stand right in front of me, my legs parted just enough that he can wedge his body into the space between my knees. I lift my head and right my body so I’m sitting upright. When I do, Jake leans forward, as close as he can, then puts his hands to my hips, jerking my body toward his with a tug. My ass, nearly bare save for the small panties under my skirt, drags roughly across the seat cover, and the combination of it all—that roughness on my skin, his hands insistently pulling me to him—makes my world cant off balance, dizzy and buzzed by the decision to be OK with wanting this right now.
    Without giving voice to all those thoughts, I let my body tell him, by simply pushing my knees and thighs tighter to him, stopping shy of allowing my legs to curl completely around his waist. It’s enough, though. Jake’s head bows forward, resting in the crook of my neck, his lips brushing against my skin and the smell of sultry spring water coming off his hair.
    â€œFuck, Lacey. How is it that you can still drive me so goddam crazy?”
    His voice hitches against the last word and the sound is nearly too much. If I’m not tremendously careful with every decision now, this will domino faster than either of us can get our clothes off.
    But I still want more. I quickly rationalize that there is no harm in taking a bit more from this foolish trip down memory lane. Two grown adults, a half-empty bottle of tequila, and one bench seat. Right now that’s sounding plenty good enough for me.
    I’ve kept my hands at my sides in a tight grip, nails digging into the seat. Unclenching my hands, I raise them to slip gently against the back of his neck. I can feel a spattering of overgrown hair across his neckline and it somehow becomes unreasonably evocative to me. The way I can’t stop considering it as evidence of his single and available status, because a good woman would remind him to get a haircut. Jake is simply an unattached man who couldn’t care less about getting a haircut until