“What?” I asked. The weight of Eric’s stare was like a third person sitting between us in the car. “You want a hand job?” I glanced over. He appeared dead serious. That hunter’s gleam was darkening his eyes, and all that was missing was a smirk or tilt of his head. “While I’m driving?” There it was—not a smirk or head tilt this time, but a subtle lift of his chin in casually seductive invitation. “Yes.” “Do you want to die?” Fun fact: I’d discovered a motherlode of hand-job-while-driving porn some weeks back and had imagined this scenario going down between Eric and me at least fifty times.
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