Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [55]
Jago’s eyes skimmed the grassy lot. Built on a hillside, the rows were terraced so that each line of cars was higher than the one in front of it. An efficient layout, it took up less acreage than a flat lot and had good viewing from any slot. “You have what—room for four-hundred cars?”
“Near that. We generally average a hundred-fifty on a good night. The capacity with the DVD and satellite projection is around four hundred for a single projector, so I think drive-ins may come back slowly—at least in this limited fashion.”
“At ten bucks a car . . . plus refreshments, three nights a week, thirty-eight weeks a year. Not a bad chunk of change. I can see the portable drive-in idea catching on with those sorts of figures. I might be interested in investing venture capital for this. I’ll have to look into it.”
Jago gathered up the trash and stuck it in the thin paper box, then leaned between the seats to place it on the backseat floor. Before she realized what he was doing, he shifted, nearly leaning against her. For a second he stared into her eyes, his breath fanning over her face. It was the first time she’d ever ranked the smell of chili dogs as sexy. Just as she figured he was going to kiss her—and she was going to let him—he reached past her and released the lever, reclining her seat back.
Raising up, those dark eyes flashed. “I missed something.”
Asha could only lie there craving chili dog kisses and inhaling his potent male scent as he loomed over her. So close. Too close. Not close enough. “What?” she croaked.
“This.” He lowered his head to kiss the corner of her mouth, his tongue lashing out to swipe her lips. “Mmm . . . chili sauce. Tastes better on you than on the hot dog. Of course, I might need a little more comparison.”
His lips brushed hers. Soft, savoring, the contact sent a deep shiver scurrying over Asha’s skin. Oh, how she wanted that kiss! The scent of Jago and his cologne was a lethal combination weaving around her, intoxicating as a $5,000 bottle of The Macallan. His high male heat radiated from him, sinking into her, snaking under her skin with a consuming need.
He pulled back, his eyes studying her. She stared up into his beautiful face, knowing this was true love. Fire rockets, Mardi Gras, dark and dangerous nights of hot sex, the scare-you-down-to your tippy-toes, forever kind of need that makes you so vulnerable. Makes you want to do the wild thing right here in the front seat at a drive-in, she chuckled to herself.
Jago Fitzgerald terrified her. He was a throwback, a dark-age warrior who could claim, conquer. Despite that terrifying prospect, she could no more pull back from sticking her finger in the socket than command herself not to breathe.
“You’re not going to warn me and start counting are you? Because I’m not walking home in the rain.” Her words were nearly a whisper.
He grinned. “Between the steering wheel and the gearshift, I think you’re reasonably safe.”
“Sort of the male version of a chastity belt?” Asha laughed. “Men have been getting around those obstacles for decades.”
“We lads relish the challenge. Kiss me, wench—you’ve been dying to for days.”
“Me?” she squeaked.
That was all she got out before his warm lips closed over hers again.
He was right—chili sauce tasted better on him than on the hot dog. She just didn’t kiss Jago; she experienced him—his flavor, the warm scent of his body, the feel of his hard muscles. She moved her hands up his spine, chafing at the obstruction of his soft sweater, craving to feel them on his flesh.
Sexy Lips was a good kisser. Oh, was he good! As her arms slid around his neck, he nibbled, licked and sucked with a warlock’s magic, sending waves of pleasure down to the tips of her toes. That sensation rushed right back upward, hitting her womb with a punch. Her breasts