The sound of footsteps trekking down the hall causes me to freeze in my carnal tracks. My body slaps with heat at the prospect of him barreling through that door, but the heavy thuds bypass this bedroom, and the soft click of another door makes it clear there’s no threat of Jet busting his way in to school me on another unwanted lesson.
As much as I should be breathing a sigh of relief, I can’t seem to bring myself to relax or even kick off my shoes. How can I sleep under that man’s roof when I was just so outright rude to him? Sure, his little snide remark about my dancing wasn’t all that courteous either, but, in the end, it was a simple fact. And, believe you me, if the opportunity to do the Stiletto tush-push presented itself again, I’d be the first girl swinging around that glittery pole.
As much as I’m remiss to the fact, I’m afraid if I want to catch a single second of shut-eye, I’m going to have to eat crow. I hit the hall and head toward Jet’s bedroom, where the biggest indiscretion of my life occurred—okay, so falling on that senator’s lap may win out in the horrible mistake category, but technically I was pulled into that compromising position, whereas the fact Jet managed to land me horizontal was a fully voluntary blunder on my part.
I give a few brisk knocks before walking right in. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? I’ve already seen all of his bits and pieces—oversized as they may be.
There he is. Jet Madden lying in bed, nude, with all his very well endowed bits and well hung pieces.
He rises to greet me and lands square in front of me. Shit!
“Um”—I swallow hard. My throat is so dry. Suddenly, I’m dying for a long, cool swig of what this boy has to offer. I shake my head a moment, begging to snap out of my testicular trance, but it’s no use. The room holds the scent of his cologne far more than he does, and that body gleams in the moonlight like a steel blade without its sheath. His chest shines like a silver platter. Those marbled blue high beams he calls eyes hook to mine and hold me right there.
I take a bold step forward and feel the heat emanating from his body like the afternoon sun off tar.
Here it is—my moment to spout an apology and run with my pointed tail right back to my room.
He closes the gap between us, forcing me to look straight up as if I were staring at the ceiling. “You file that restraining order yet?”
My mouth opens then closes as I remember that conversation from the bookstore. So that’s what he’s doing. He’s goading me into an apology, not that I wasn’t prepared to give one, but still. He probably enraged me on purpose, out in the living room, because heknewI would feel bad. Of course, I would. I’m a good person. He knew all of these little seemingly nice things he’s done would crawl right under my skin, and, here I am, ready to grovel at his bare feet.
“You really want an apology, don’t you?” I hack the words out in one continuous string.
Jet knocks his head back and barks out a laugh. That wall of a chest expands and vibrates, creating sculpted striations that I’d like to iron out with my tongue. I mean my—oh, for shit’s sake. It’s like he’s cast some spell on me.
“I’m not expecting an apology, sweetie.” His tone is so spitefully low and slow it causes that tender part of me to spasm on command. Of course, it does. Jet knows every trick in the book to get a girl to O on cue. The sooner I get the hell out of his sexual dungeon the better for my vagina and me. He leans in low until his hot breath rakes across my cheek. “We both know it’d take an act of Congress for that to happen.”
A dull laugh begs to bubble up, but I don’t dare give him the satisfaction. “I do have pull with the Senate. I’m sure I could make that happen if I wanted, but it’s going to take more than Congress. If you want an apology, it’s going to take an act ofGod.” I twist my face so close to his, those lips are within grazing range. I take a step back and catch my breath, looking at this tribute to the Sharpie with his blow up muscles, those neon blue eyes that look strangely backlit with the whisper of the moon tucked in them.
“You!” I press my finger hard against his chest, and I can’t seem to remove it from his fiery, petrified flesh. Oh hell, Jet has me, and he knows it.
“You.” He runs his finger over my boob and flicks it.
I gasp at his brazen act of groping.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Leave my mother out of this.” He sheds a dirty grin.
“You’re such a”—words get locked up in my throat as I stumble for one decent insult to bestow upon him. And that cocky grin! “Arrgh!” I launch at him, pressing my lips to his. My hips land over his waist in one quick leap before locking my legs around his back. My tongue lands in that hot searing mouth of his, and he probes me with a vicious intensity I have never felt before. This is animalistic, something wild, primitive, savage. Judging by that military salute his lap rocket just offered up, Jet is just as hot and bothered as I am.
He pulls us backward until I’m seated on the bed, and his hands get right to work evicting every last layer of clothing from my body. Jet runs his finger down my torso in the shape of one, hot, long S before making himself at home, plunging deep inside of me, and a breath lodges in my throat.
Jet locks those sexed-up, lust-filled eyes to mine, and his lips give the idea of a smile. I’m pretty sure that half-hearted grin means he’s claiming victory, claiming me or both, but at this moment in time, I really don’t care if Jet Madden wins. As long as we have a repeat performance of what happened last night, I really don’t give a damn.
He leans in, pressing that intense gaze into mine until my skull catches fire.
“On all fours.” He twists me by the hips until I’m on my knees. Jet parts my thighs before plucking a condom off the nightstand and rolling it on. It feels like eternity waiting for him as the cool night air licks a line up the most tender part of me. I feel far less exposed here in the dark, straddling Jet’s mattress, than I ever did in any of those photos circulating around the Internet that I’ve lived to regret so deeply.
Which begs the question—will I live to regret this?
Jet spears me in one, quick, hostile move, and I take in a searing breath.
One thing is for sure—this time I won’t fight it.
Jet
For the nextfew days it’s a repeat performance—me manhandling Daisy Pembrooke’s tiny body over mine, and when I say repeat, I don’t mean style and routine. In fact, there is nothing routine about what goes on behind my closed bedroom door, not that there ever was, for sure not with Daisy.
