Driving Heat Read online

  Byron was interested in what she was saying.

  But her lips—plump, slightly parted,

  and bearing traces of dark red lipstick—

  were making it hard for him to

  concentrate on mere words.

  “I enjoy you,” he whispered, as his head lowered to align with hers. “Thanks for your company.”

  Their lips met, and it felt like clouds bumping into each other in a rainbow sky. His tongue slipped into her parted lips, even as he took a step closer, pinning her between his body and the side of the car. Somewhere in Cynthia’s mind there was a caution sign blinking. But she couldn’t slow down. His touch was more like a promise, an introduction, an invitation of what might be in store.

  Everything about her turned him on: soft hair, fragrant skin, the way she fit him perfectly. If they got together, the lovemaking would have to go nonstop, for at least a week, before he’d have enough. His desire for her was so strong it was scary.

  Also by Zuri Day

  Lies Lovers Tell

  Body by Night

  Lessons from a Younger Lover

  What Love Tastes Like

  Lovin’ Blue

  Love in Play

  Heat Wave (with Donna Hill and Niobia Bryant)

  The One That I Want (with Donna Hill and Cheris Hodges)

  The Morgan Men Series

  Love on the Run

  A Good Dose of Pleasure

  Bad Boy Seduction

  The Blue-Collar Lover Series

  Driving Heat

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Driving

  HEAT

  A Blue-Collar Lover Novel

  ZURI DAY

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Zuri Day

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  Epilogue

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  Copyright Page

  For you, Freddie “Lightfoot” Woodley . . . enjoy the read!

  Acknowledgments

  I am so excited about this series, inspired by an online book club chat in which the readers were asked what they wanted in romance novels that they didn’t currently see. A few members said, “Regular guys.” Instantly, my mind went to the wonderful men I know who may live ordinary (whatever that is) lives, but who have extraordinary character, faith, integrity, skill, and personalities. From Papa Nash, the farmer, who as a childless single man in his forties married my grandmother, who came with five grown kids, and who was kind and funny and hardworking, and the best grandfather ever! To my dad, Rev. Willie Hinton, Jr., who when not in the pulpit worked construction before starting his own lawn business; my brother, Johnny, and the many men all over this country who’ve provided such great examples to pull from in writing this series.

  When thinking about occupations for the five Carter brothers, bus driver was the first one that came to mind. For no special reason, I thought, except that it sounded blue collar. Then a couple months into the writing I got the news that a twenty-five-year-long friend, who was more like a brother to me, had earned his angel wings. “Foot,” to whom this book is dedicated, was a father, son, brother, uncle, musician, singer, songwriter, radio announcer, and life of the party wherever he was. It was another month or so before it hit me. His first job? The one he had when I met him? Bus driver for the Kansas City metro. Felt rather like a full-circle moment that made me smile. Interesting how life works out.

  A huge thank you to my sister, Dee, the certified peer specialist whose information and insight helped Cynthia’s character come alive, and also prevented her from breaking American Counseling Association rules. Love you, sis! As always, to Team Zuri including Selena, Natasha, and Janice for the spot-on cover, smooches. To the Lovely Day VIPs, members of A Lovely Day Experience, supporters, and friends who sent love, light, and prayers to assist this book’s completion, amen! To all ordinary brothers who are extraordinary men . . . thank you.

  Prologue

  “Byron . . . this feels so good.”

  A cocksure smile appeared on his face as Byron Carter enjoyed one of his favorite pastimes, pleasing his woman. He led this timeless dance of love with precision, establishing a rhythmic beat with his hips, and melody with his lips. Without warning, he stopped. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her.

  “You’re beautiful.” Raining kisses on her face—eyes, nose, cheeks—he began to grind again. Slowly. Reverently. As if she were priceless china, or handblown glass.

  “I love you.” He kissed her then, so tenderly and lovingly that the act almost brought tears to her eyes.

  This is what my BFFs don’t understand about why I’m with you. This is the feeling of being loved that Dynah and Gayle can’t grasp because, sadly, it’s a depth I’m sure they’ve never experienced. If they had, they’d accept you without question, and be happy for me.

  “Is this enough for you, huh?” No answer, just eyes back, mouth slack. His hips stopped mid-motion. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes,” she eked out between pants. She moved her hips feverishly, the spot he’d branded missing its iron. “Please . . .”

  He chuckled, happy to be in bed with this woman, the love of his life.

  For long minutes this continued, until her panting became more labored. Though not a singer, as this first orgasm began in her core and spiraled to her cranial, her voice went from a guttural low tenor moan to a respectable High C squeak. Some men would consider themselves finished after such a performance. But for Byron Carter, if there weren’t multiple moments of ecstasy for his woman, then he felt he wasn’t doing his job.

  Listening to her breathy mewling as her body twitched and muscles gripped his still-hard rod, he felt his own imminent climax begin to build. Using discipline honed in the sixteen years he’d been sexually active, he stopped, held himself against her as she relaxed beneath him. They’d just begun. On such a special morning, it wouldn’t do for him to come too soon.

  When he felt her lips touch his neck in the lightest of kisses, he began to stir again. This woman was everything, and not just because of the body beneath him that so turned him on. Cynthia, the one some had thought was above his pay grade, and others believed he could never have. Whether it could happen or not had never been a question in his mind. He was a Carter, and can’t wasn’t in his family’s vocabulary. Now whether or not it would happen had been a point up for grabs.

  Not anymore.

  Suddenly and without warning, before she could catch her breath, Byron adjusted his body so he could say good morning to the berry-colored nipple now aligned with his lips. He
flicked his tongue. Goose bumps appeared, a seeming contradiction to the hot breath coming from his mouth, or the way Cynthia’s body arched when he laved his tongue across the now-pebbled protrusion before gently sucking it into his oral entrance. Her body was his breakfast and he ate his fill, turned her over, and filled her up. Moans, grunts, and heavy breaths replaced the bird’s good morning. Sweet release was the dew that moistened their skin. Again she began to tremble, her voice repeating its earlier song, eyes shut, toes curled. This time Byron joined her, ground himself into her velvety softness as liquid love flowed from his soul to hers. But instead of allowing the moment to slowly subside into a cozy cuddle, he encouraged her to lie on her back, pressed his lips against hers, and rolled out of bed.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  “To take a shower.”

  “What if I’m not ready for it to be over?”

  Byron stopped, turned around. “That’s how I always want to leave you, baby . . . wanting more.”

  She huffed with annoyance but joined him in the shower. He understood her hunger. For these single parents these were treasured moments alone, when his daughter spent the weekend with her mother and her son enjoyed a play date with friends. Still, after refusing to give in to her greedy demands for yet another round with his six-inch supersexer—his word—Byron slipped on a pair of boxers and headed for the bright and airy kitchen of Cynthia’s bi-level condo.

  “Are you fixing breakfast?”

  Byron laughed. “It’s either that or starve, since you’re not cooking.”

  He walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, and felt a sting as Cynthia popped his butt with a dish towel. Slowly turning around, his eyes narrowed. Cynthia’s grew large. “You shouldn’t have done that, girl.” His look was purposely predatory as he took a step toward her.

  “I’m sorry!” Spoken through laughter, the apology hardly sounded sincere. She took two steps back. After a couple more steps he made a quick move around the island and reached out to grab her.

  Cynthia yelped, ran into the living room, and quickly put the couch between them. “Really, Byron, cut it out. Let’s make breakfast together. I’m hungry.”

  “No, girl. You started something. I’m going to finish it.”

  He captured her and soon they were tousling on the couch. Cynthia hated to be tickled, so, of course, that’s what he did. Wearing just a spaghetti top and panties, her entire body was fair game.

  “Stop! Byron! Stop it!”

  She begged. He laughed. The teasing turned into a tantalizing kiss. His tongue began a journey from her stomach to her freshly showered treasure. Cynthia shifted to give access. Both froze when the doorbell rang.

  Byron spoke first. “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know!” was Cynthia’s panicked whisper. “Jayden isn’t due back until tomorrow!” They both looked toward the door for answers. “Let’s just stay quiet so whoever it is will go away.”

  The doorbell rang twice more before an incessant knocking started. “Cynthia, we know you’re in there. Open the door!”

  Byron arched a brow. “Whoever that is sounds determined to see you.”

  “Shit!” She pushed Byron off of her and scurried off the couch. “It’s Gayle, a friend from Chicago.” The whisper had lessened to near pantomime. “What’s she doing here?”

  Byron thought of their situation, the big secret, and shrugged. This is going to be good.

  “Um, just a minute.”

  She ushered him up the stairs and was right on his heels. After grabbing and throwing on a robe, she scurried back downstairs. She hoped her look wasn’t one of just-been-screwed and WTH, but felt that chance was most unlikely.

  She opened the door. “Gayle!” Seeing another woman, she added, “And you, too?”

  “What took you so long to answer?” This from Dynah, another BFF, who was straining her neck to see what lie behind the door numbered 215.

  “I’m the one who should be asking the questions.” Cynthia crossed her arms, still blocking their entry. “What on earth are you two doing here?”

  “Being your best friends,” Gayle replied, pushing her way into Cynthia’s home without being invited. “We’re here to talk some sense into you.”

  “Before you make the biggest mistake of your life!” Dynah’s eyes never stopped moving, visually inspecting the room like she was CSI.

  Thank God he’s in the bedroom. Cynthia hoped Ms. Snoop couldn’t smell sex in the air. Jesus be an air freshener! Inside she was cringing, but relaxed her stance. “And what mistake would that be?”

  “Probably me.” Three pairs of eyes watched a jeans and tee-clad Byron walk calmly down the stairs. He came up next to Cynthia, put a casual arm around her waist, and split a challenging yet slightly amused look between her two unexpected guests. “Ladies . . . am I right?”

  1

  A few months earlier

  “Good morning!”

  “Is it?” Cynthia side-eyed Ivy, her eternally effervescent assistant.

  “Absolutely! I’m reading a self-help book that says what you think about you bring about. So I’m thinking that this is going to be an excellent day!”

  “We’ll see.” That girl is entirely too cheery for a Monday morning. Cynthia decided to wait until after downing her supersized mocha latte to form an opinion.

  She unlocked the door and walked into her office, determined to change her dark, Monday morning mood. Any number of reasons could be blamed for it: LA traffic, the oncoming monthly, a feud with her mother, a love life so bleak that her coochie had cobwebs. But all of those took a back seat to today’s mandatory meeting. The H.E.L.P. Agency, a social service organization funded through grants and private donation, was reorganizing. The director of the agency was taking an unexpected early retirement. The position she’d set her sights on two years ago was suddenly coming available and at least one other applicant wanted it as much as she did. Considering her background, that of a privileged, upper-middle-class debutante who didn’t have to work, one might wonder why her career meant so much. But those who knew her understood her passion to help young people, particularly young girls. This news, delivered on the previous Friday, could have been assuaged with a bottle of wine and a clearing of cobwebs. Instead, she’d gone home to an eight-year-old, his good friend Bobby, and video game mayhem. Not a good formula for a great weekend. It had gone downhill from there.

  What you think about you bring about!

  With hopes that some of Ivy’s positive energy would waft into her office, Cynthia fired up her laptop and waded into the day’s agenda. An hour later, she pushed the intercom button. “Ivy, has my nine o’clock appointment called?”

  “Not since I arrived at eight-fifteen. There were no messages either.”

  “Okay. Give her a call and make sure she’s on her way.”

  “Will do.”

  A few seconds later, Ivy walked into Cynthia’s office. “The call went to voice mail. I left a message for her to call you ASAP.”

  Cynthia’s brow creased. “This client is truly irritating. She’s two seconds away from a jail sentence and is still acting irresponsibly. We’ll give her another thirty minutes and if she’s not here by then, I’ll need you to go over and deliver the warning letter.”

  “My daughter has a doctor’s appointment. I’d planned to leave for that in thirty minutes.”

  “Right, I saw that on the schedule and forgot that quickly.” Cynthia drummed her fingers against the desk, searching for a solution and finding none.

  “Too bad we can no longer use messenger services.”

  “The agency dodged a bullet with that Anderson case. I doubt anyone other than staff will be able to handle these formal notice deliveries for the next ninety days. There’s no way I can miss today’s meeting.”

  Ivy stole a quick glance behind her and lowered her voice. “Speaking of, she came by this morning?”

  So much for Ivy and positive energy in the room. “Margo?” Ivy nodded. �
��What did she want?”

  “Snooping, I’m sure. Asked if you were here, looked at her watch when I said you weren’t.”

  “I so don’t have time for her right now, or to wait for Ms. Thompson. The last thing I need this week is a client getting probation revoked on a technicality. Print out a final notice form. Get it notarized. I’ll take it over. If I leave right now, I’ll be fine.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Cynthia left downtown Los Angeles and headed for Compton Boulevard on the city’s south side. Even with a stack of cases needing attention and traffic still fairly heavy, she welcomed getting away from the office. The mere thought of Margo and her underhanded tactics could make her blood boil. For today’s meeting, she needed a cool, clear head.

  Cynthia’s thoughts were interrupted when an eighteen-wheeler drifted into her lane, almost sideswiping her car.

  An expletive accompanied the blast from her horn. She quickly switched lanes and accelerated. As it lurched forward, her car made a loud, knocking noise.

  “Oh!” What the heck is that? She checked the instruments on the dashboard. They all looked fine to her, which, given that she barely knew the brake from the gas pedal, didn’t mean much. A few miles down the highway and she heard the sound again. Just as she began to worry that something serious might be wrong, the noise stopped and the car settled back into its normal smooth ride. The scare was quickly forgotten. She exited the freeway with the missing client on her mind.

  Though it was her first time in this area, GPS made finding the address easy. Cynthia pulled to the curb of a small, yet well-kept home on what appeared to be a quiet, established block of similarly designed residences. She was embarrassed at her surprise. All she’d heard of Compton was what had been made popular by rap artists and news reports. She’d half expected to find gang members walking down the street smoking blunts and blaring rap music. After a quick look around (after all, they could be hiding), she exited the car and walked to the door.