“You act like you do.”
That’s the problem with Jax Mercer. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t chase. Doesn’t fill silence just because it exists. He just stands there, steady enough to make every exit strategy I have feel dramatic and unnecessary.
I want to call it arrogance. Arrogance would be easier. It isn’t arrogance.
“You don’t like that?”
Like what?
Like the certainty. Like the fact that he doesn’t rush to rescue me from the quiet. Like the way he looks at me like waiting isn’t difficult for him.
I should say yes.
I don’t.
“I didn’t say that.”
Something changes between us. Subtle, but real. The air feels closer somehow, even before he moves. Like the moment has already tipped and the rest of me is just catching up.
He looks at me like he’s leaving me room to back out. That does something to me. More than it should. Way more than it should. Because guys who leave room are dangerous in a completely different way than guys who push. The ones who push are easy. You brace. You resist. You sharpen.
It’s the men I might actually trust that are the problem. I don’t step back.
That feels like the real answer.
He pushes off the car and closes the space between us. Slow enough that I could stop this. Certain enough that I know he thinks I won’t.
One step. Then another.
His hand comes up and cups my face. Warm. Steady. Careful. My body reacts instantly, like it’s been waiting for him to catch up all day, which feels both excessive and deeply rude.
I know how to handle being wanted. Men make that easy all the time. It’s being handled carefully that throws me off. Because careful has never felt neutral to me. It feels temporary. Like the kind of thing people offer right before they decide you’re too much work after all.
But there’s nothing temporary in him. Nothing halfway. Just that quiet, impossible certainty.
Great. Perfect. Exactly what my week needed, a professional disaster with nice hands.
I don’t move.
I should.
Apparently every survival instinct I own has stepped out for a smoke.
“You’re not going to apologize a third time.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“Good.”
Then he kisses me.
It lands a little rough, a little crooked, like patience gave out halfway through restraint, and my hands fist in his jacket before I consciously agree to any of this. His mouth is hot, insistent without being careless, and when he makes this low sound in his throat I feel it everywhere.
Which is ridiculous. It’s just a sound.
It’s not.
Then his hand tightens at my back and the joke dies immediately. I pull him closer. He comes without hesitation. That’s what gets me. Not just the kiss. Not even how badly I want it.
