“I’m over it.”
“The sensitivity or my comment?”
“Both. It took me a while to get here, but I like who I am and the way that I look.”
“You should. You’re gorgeous.”
“Thank you, Jasper.” Then acting on impulse, I rise up onto my tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his lips. Even with that simple touch, I feel the wicked thrill of being on a roller coaster paused at the peak. My heart races, my pulse accelerates, and goosebumps break out across my skin. And then the plunge…he kisses me back, and I’m free falling, stomach dropping, mind turning to vapor.
It’s rough enough to bruise and exactly what I want.
He slides his hands over my shoulders, down the length of my spine to the small of my back. Then grabbing my hips, he lifts me up and sets me on the counter, making the canisters rattle from the impact. I snake my arms around his neck in a near stranglehold pleading for him not to pull away this time.
“I want you so much,” I whisper against his lips when they separate for a fraction of a second. “So much I can’t stand it.”
With a groan that I pray means we’re on the same wavelength, he nudges my legs apart, making room for himself, and takes my mouth again with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. The man can kiss. It’s as if he read my playbook and studied every move. I’ve never been so turned on by a locking of lips before. That potent mix of skill, chemistry, and testosterone steam-pressing the front of me has my breasts feeling feverish, my clit aching, and my whole body throbbing with fuck-me-until-I-scream arousal.
“Jasper, please,” I beg.
With one hand pressed at my hip, the other moves upward along my leg in a possessive glide, leaving a trail of heat all the way to the inside of my thigh. His breath hisses out when he touches the triangle of my V-string. Panting, I thrust forward and spread my legs wider in wanton invitation. Insinuating his fingers under the thin, wet layer, he rubs up and down the lips of my labia, his mouth devouring me as he eases two fingers between my slick folds and enters me in one deep, devastating thrust.
My moans bat against his while I ride those digits like I’m on a bronco, bare-back and out of control. There’s no shame in my game. I’ve never felt so ripe, so ready. Knowing how good that release is going to be makes me crazed for it.
He pumps in and out, matching my speed, his breaths getting hotter, his groans loader. And then…holy shit…his thumb makes contact, and…yes…ohhh yes…right there!I gasp as he circles my clit, nearly mindless from the impending orgasm barreling down with a mighty force. Then it explodes through me, starting with the euphoric spasms of my core and reverberating outward until I’m sobbing into his mouth and trembling all over.
He stays with me past the very last shudder. I sag against him, breathless and limp. His lips move across my cheek and near my ear. His voice is husky when he whispers the one thing I’ve longed to hear him say: “Jordyn.”
“GOT THE JOB FINISHED?” Pops asks when I enter the house.
“Yeah, it’s done. Going to the shed for a while.”
“Did I tell you about the farmer’s pig?”
“Not now, Pops. Not now.”
In the confines of the tiny wooden structure, I pace, remembering every second of that kiss, the soft skin of her thighs over firm muscle, the sweet wetness I wanted to get drunk on. Bringing my fingers to my nose, I breathe in her scent, suck the tips into my mouth, and taste her. She’d sobbed against my lips, shaking against me in the throes of her climax. I was hard, so fucking hard I could have drilled holes through her kitchen counter. The savage desire to take her right there, to go medieval and damn the consequences, made me run like hell.
Not because I remembered my past or considered the risk, but because while my tongue had been exploring her mouth, and my fingers had been coated in her slickness, I wanted her to the exclusion of all else.
Now alone in my shed, the memories ofThat Nightrush back in vivid detail.
* * *
The foyer was a horror show…the blade, dripping crimson. Gemma, rabid…stabbing and slashing…Lilah’s hands trying to protect herself before falling to the floor. I raced forward…a gash to my upper arm, to my chin.
“Why couldn’t you love me, Jay?” Gemma lunged again. “Why did you make me do this?”
I took her down with a choke hold. Losing consciousness, she crumpled in a heap. I kicked the knife out of reach and went to Lilah. The wounds on her exposed arms and hands oozed blood. The front of her dress was sliced and wet, the stain spreading. Shaking so badly, I could hardly hold the phone, I called 911, frantically recounting the situation while I got towels from the closet—my training kicking in even as I felt myself falling apart.
With the phone on speaker, I dropped it beside me, answering the operator’s questions, cradling Lilah in my arms, even though I knew I was contaminating a crime scene. I couldn’t just leave her alone, frightened and in pain. I pressed the towels to her wounds, but there were so many, and the blood kept seeping through. I kissed her head, murmuring promises…you’re going to be okay. Just hang on, hang on…no…don’t close your eyes…stay with me, Lilah…I love you…we’re going to get married…have babies…three like you want…What were the names? Shit, I couldn’t remember.
I kept pressing, cradling, telling her I loved her, hearing her soft gasps for air, each breath a chore.
When the paramedics and police arrived, I refused treatment for my cuts, my focus on staying with Lilah. But the cops separated me from her to get information.
“Who is this woman?” an officer asked as Gemma was loaded on a gurney.
“Her name is Gemma.”
