I tried to glare at him. It was extremely difficult to glare at someone when their thumb was doing things that made coherent thought nearly impossible. “We had a deal. Sunday nights are documentary nights. We watch the whole thing. No distractions.”
“I’m not distracted.” His other hand slid up my thigh—still over my jeans, nothing inappropriate, but the intent was clear. “I can multitask.”
“You’re not even looking at the screen.”
“I’m a very visual learner. I learn better by touch.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” His fingers traced the seam of my jeans, and my hips rolled forward without permission, betraying me completely.
The documentary narrator was saying something about search parties. About the timeline. The evidence found near the shore but I wasn’t processing any of it. Jack’s hands were everywhere and nowhere at once—never quite where I wanted them, always keeping me on edge, building tension with the patience of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
“This isn’t fair,” I managed. “You’re driving me insane.”
“I’m just watching TV.” But his mouth curved, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re the one who seems distracted.”
I was going to kill him. Or kiss him. The options were equally appealing.
His hand traced down my ribs, over my hip, along my outer thigh. Then back up. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to map every inch of me through my clothes while pretending to care about maritime law and insurance fraud.
“I’m just sitting here, Pauline. You’re the one who keeps moving.”
I was. I was shifting restlessly against him, my body arching into his touches without conscious thought, my breathing too fast, my skin too hot.
“This is your fault,” I accused.
“How is this my fault?”
“You and your—” I gestured vaguely at all of him. “Your everything. Your hands and your face and your?—”
I gave up on words and kissed him.
I grabbed his face, pulled him down, and kissed him hard, all the pent-up frustration of the last twenty minutes pouring out in one fierce, desperate press of mouth against mouth. He made a sound—surprised, pleased, triumphant—and then his hands were on me properly, no more teasing, no more patience, just heat and need and seven years of wanting compressed into this single moment.
I pulled back just long enough to shift into his lap, straddling him properly, and his hands found my hips and yanked me closer and?—
“What about the documentary?” he murmured against my mouth, and I could feel him smiling.
“Shut up and finish what you started.”
He laughed—low and rough—and then his mouth was on my throat and my hands were in his hair and somewhere in the background the documentary was still playing but neither of us cared anymore, and really, we never had.
The husband did it. We’d been right all along.
The days that followed fell into a rhythm I hadn’t expected—easy, comfortable. But by Tuesday, I’d run out of excuses for wearing Jack’s t-shirts.
“I need real clothes,” I announced, standing in his kitchen in one of his button-downs that hit me mid-thigh. “I can’t go to work dressed like I raided a CEO’s closet.”
“You could.” He was leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, watching me with that expression that suggested he wasextremely okay with me wearing his clothes indefinitely. “I think it’s a good look.”
“Your shirts are not professional attire.” I said with a roll of my eyes.
“They could be. I’ll make it a company policy. I’m the boss,” He said smugly.
“You’re ridiculous.” I grabbed my bag. “I’m going home. I need my own clothes and to check on my apartment before my pigeon files a missing person report.”
“I’ll drive you.”
