He shifted, turning his back to the shop as he studied the shelves. From the other side of the shop, I was certain it appeared we were carrying on a quiet but book-centric conversation.
"Haven't thought of anything but getting between your pages since I left here yesterday morning," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'm sorry I had to run out like that. I've been keeping my eye on a situation and ended up dealing with it all day, and—"
"No apologies," I interrupted. "I had customers and it was nine o'clock in the morning and it just wasn't the time."
Jackson looked away from the shelves, his gaze landing on my lips and sliding down the v-neck of my blue wrap dress. "It damn well better be the time soon," he said. "I haven't been able to think of anything but bending you over that counter since I walked in."
I dragged my tongue over my parched lips. "You should tell me about it. To get it off your mind."
A switch flipped in Jackson, shutting down his cool, calm sheriff vibe and turning on the starved, sexual man I was beginning to adore. His jaw locked, his lips pulled up in a naughty smirk, his nostrils flared. He was verging on snarling bull and I couldn't help but lean closer to him.
Jackson shot a glimpse across the shop. "Turn off all the lights. Lock the doors. Get you behind the counter," he said, each statement rushing out in a huff. "Skirt up, underwear down. Wrap your fingers around the edge of the counter because you'd need to hold on to something." He dragged his knuckle from the base of my throat to the valley between my breasts. "Get my cock out and slide inside you, fuck you, lose my damn mind on you."
A choked sob slipped past my lips and I didn't try to cover it up. There was no point. My nipples were tunneling their way through the fabric of my bra and dress, my cheeks were flushed, and my chest was heaving with erratic, choppy breaths.
I turned my head toward Jackson but didn't meet his gaze. I couldn't. If I took one look at his hot, hungry eyes, I was going to climb him like a jungle gym and demand he take me right up against the boring-as-hell political manifesto books.
"This place will be cleared out in ten, maybe fifteen minutes," I said.
"And yet we could be upstairs in your apartment in three," he replied. "Decisions, decisions."
"My apartment is small," I cautioned.
I didn't know why I said that about my sugar-cube-sized apartment. It seemed like I should warn him that me and my existence were less than he was anticipating. Even if I'd wowed him with muffins and pies and a tumble on the back table, I didn't want to escalate his expectations. I didn't want to disappoint him.
"But it has a bed?" He shuffled, causing his elbow to brush my arm, and a tiny purr rumbled in my throat.
"It does," I replied.
"That's all we need," he said. "I've been waiting to get you in bed for months."
"More like weeks," I said, stealing glances over my shoulder at the remaining customers.
"Months," Jackson repeated, pressing his hand to my belly. "Believe me, Annie, it's been months."
His fingers stretched from the bottom of my bra's underwire to the top edge of my panties. He stroked me in tiny circles and lit a line of heat down my torso. I was aching for him, my core throbbing and clenching while my shoulders were strung tighter than ever before. The slightest tap could split me in half and leave me in shards on the floor.
The door chimes sounded and I shot another glance over my shoulder. The shop was nearly empty, only two customers still perusing the shelves. On any other evening, I would've been right there, chatting them up and staying open long past the official hours. Tonight, after dropping into the deep end of crazy-good publicity, I was shutting this place down.
"All right, here's the plan," I said to Jackson. "Go on upstairs. The door's open and I'll meet you there in five minutes."
"The door is open? Why would that be the case?" he asked, separating his warm hand from my belly.
"Because I left it open," I said. "I burnt some orange brioche rolls last night and needed to air the place out."
Jackson shook his head as he backed away from me. "We'll talk about that later," he promised. "The burnt rollsandthe unlocked doors. And the pepper spray I want you to keep in your bag."
"Later," I said, holding up my hands in surrender. "We'll talk about everything."
I managedto hurry the stragglers along, lock up the cash, send Jane and Yosefina home, and secure the shop in three minutes. I moved with the singular purpose of getting upstairs and getting under Jackson. It didn't matter whether it was loaded with complications or weighed down with all my doubts and issues. Right now—tonight—I was setting all of it aside. I could want Jackson and have him without getting lost in the thicket.
If I kept telling myself that, it would be true.
I climbed the stairs and pushed open the screen door to find Jackson standing in the middle of my apartment and his sheriff's belt slung over the back of a kitchen chair. He seemed too big for my cozy home, too male for my flamingos-and-pink-pineapples décor. But he crooked his finger at me and I went to him, dropping my phone, bag, and keys to the floor.
Too big, too male, too right.
"That was six minutes," he said, tracing the line of my dress's v-neck.
